Mt. Snow Retrospective

Wednesday July 16, 2008

10:02 AM

Bathing suit and pillow, jerseys and sports bras (multiple colors, of course), sunglasses and hair-ties, spandex and socks (the snowmen ones for race day), gloves and supplements, bottles, chocolate milk, Arnica gel, and shampoo; most importantly, though—the bike, the shoes, and the helmet. All else is negligible, either borrow or go naked, so long as you can ride your bike. We have all experienced the looming mental checklist that appears while accelerating further away from what we should have packed. It’s inevitable, and as the miles piled between us and New Jersey, a truck full of personalized and unfinished checklists slowly began to dissipate; replaced instead by individual hopes, expectations, apprehensions and curiosities about the weekend to come. The 2008 Mt. Snow National Mountain Bike Championships lie directly ahead of us, like a sleeping giant among the hills of Vermont, patiently awaiting our arrival.

2:37 PM

Upon arriving we made a beeline for registration in order to pick up our race plates and packets from the familiar lemon-shirted officials hovering about. Without much delay, our convoy sped over to the silence of a mountainside condo desperately in need of dwellers, and proceeded to inhabit it with brimming backpacks, bulging duffle bags, and enough food to occupy at least two fridges. As things began to settle and beds and floor-spaces were claimed, the fact that two males would be residing amongst a pack of six females for the next five days became a definite reality. Unlike the usual mountain bike escapade with “the guys” and you, the one girl tough enough to hang, this would prove to be an interesting experience in the dynamics of female interaction on multiple levels: as friends, as teammates, and as family. The potential was endless and the results would prove to be more than we could have asked for.

3:36 PM

At last, an opportunity to get out on our beautiful two-wheeled devices, the pre-ride! One minute we are wishing farewell to New Jersey, the next bustling about in an attempt to nest our condo into a temporary abode; and in an instant we were black and white and red uniforms marching up the belly of a sleeping giant. One lap brought the climbing aspect of Saturday’s XC race into somewhat of a perspective, and it was unanimously decided there would be quite a bit in the ascending department. The descents stood sturdy, rooted, semi-technical, tight, and fantastic; not atypical of classic Northeast terrain. All they needed to be complete was for the gods to open up a brief monsoon over their twists and turns, get things greased up a little, and consequently level the playing field—such things one can only pray for.

5:12 PM

As the others headed back to showers and dinner-prep, I decided to head out for another go on the course. I wanted to become more familiar with the water bars that stood in confidence on any number of the high-speed fire road sections. Without proper preparation and execution these seemingly small bumps, when taken at high speeds, could muster the strength to buck you from your carefree world, an event I did not care to experience. Later on I would make my way over to the Dual Slalom course in order to observe and synthesize the riders and their approach to dirt rollers; something which I learned a great deal from, watching a certain fluid beauty in their lifting the front wheel, while wheelying the back.

6:08 PM

The second lap ended up taking about two hours, for I unexpectedly encountered a nine-year-old boy named Robbie, his father ran the Kenda booth, donning a pair of flip-flops and attempting to make his way through the course on a bike that was rather big for him. At first I passed, but when my conscience kept at me, I looped back to check out the situation. Turns out that he “got scared sometimes, but not all the time” when he rode alone, and that “if I wanted to stay and ride with him he would not mind.” The flip-flops perplexed me, but I let it go and we shared a slow ride through the woods. I like to think we crossed paths for different personal reasons unbeknownst to us at the time; he needed the acknowledgment and companionship, and I needed to slow down, take some photos, and appreciate the experience at hand.

7:36 PM

My family of eight back at the homestead was a little worried that dark was closing in and I had not yet returned, but I related the story of a little boy, a big bike, and a pair of flip-flops, and they were relieved; how nice to have people around who care for you. After a communal dinner, followed by some very necessary Ben and Jerry’s, our female pack proceeded to form a stretching circle on the living room carpet, giving and taking different yoga poses and techniques, and initiating a bond over the day’s pre-ride. The positive aura of our dynamic was already beginning to take form, not just among the women, but among the two lone men and the rest of us ladies. From the beginning it was natural, nothing seemed to have to be said; we simply shared responsibilities and space, food and conversation; we worked together without having to work, like a good relationship should, and never once did we take each other for granted. The camaraderie was unmistakably genuine, a truly symbiotic relationship between a group of disparate individuals all with similar goals.

10:05 PM

A blanket, two pillows, teammate Marianne, and the shared space of a living room floor—the house had settled into that fuzzy charcoal hue of night, all was silent, and sleep was upon us. At the feet of a sleeping giant, one still awaiting our efforts to awaken him from slumber, we took to our own dreams, watching them on the backs of our eyelids, and drifted away.

Thursday July 17, 2008

6:59 AM

Homemade waffles, fresh almond butter, and plump blueberries—what more could one ask for in their breakfast wishes? The house smelled sweetly of batter slowly congealing, brewed coffee, and crushed almonds. Amid muffled morning-talk and sleep gradually exiting newly opened eyes we found ourselves once again seated, akin to The Last Supper, a family gathered at dawn. Another stretching session found its way in after breakfast and then a period of relaxation and reading, light conversation and naps before preparing for the initial Super-D course inspection—it was only in the week prior, at Windham Mountain, that several of us made our debut onto the Super-D scene, thus anticipation was on par with curiosity, and everyone was eager to experience the unknown.

2:11 PM

Lunch was consumed and spandex was slipped into, sunscreen applied, and water bottles filled. Five of six women in the house loaded onto their full-suspensions with slightly longer travel and headed towards the lifts. We are XC riders who have dabbled in downhill, and so a lift-ride to the top of the mountain (unheard of) is still somewhat of a novelty. With the astonished yet positive reactions from the local lift attendants and fellow riders, I suppose our girl-herd was also still somewhat of a novelty. Sometimes it slips my mind that a pack of confident and accomplished female riders can be seen as somewhat of an anomaly in the world of mountain biking.

Our crew got in three runs within the time allotted for Super-D practice, and I would be a liar if I did not say that those runs were sheer bliss. On a scale of one to amazing, they were pretty much amazing. The course commenced with a descent, rightfully so, into an open grassy area which held several hidden rock faces, steep enough to necessitate a move of your rear out over the back wheel. An off-camber right onto a neck’s-width skinny placed you atop the face of a rock and then dipped into various sections of highly satisfying singletrack. The course certainly demanded one’s attention, which made it that much more enjoyable; with medium-sized drops, scattered roots, fast fire roads, sprintable ascents, and double track interspersed with a notorious species of elusive water bar. As a result of the three runs, our group came away plastered with grins, chatting our way back home and already reminiscing lines and sharing personal technique. Riding and positive people, good food and sleep—the imperative staples of life were all present, and another day at Mt. Snow had come and gone.

Friday July 18, 2008

6:07 AM

Friday Morning brought the first, and second, of our XC races: semi-pro at nine and sport at twelve. As my own race neared (Saturday) and pre-race nerves began to eat away at the lining of my stomach and intestinal tract, consuming breakfast became more and more of a challenge, while holding it down remained an effort in and of itself. Not for everyone, but alas for a select few, as race day gets closer to becoming a reality, the volatility of a nervous stomach can become a fragile matter of balance and moderation. Anything and everything related to food becomes a means for the onset of nausea.

7:29 AM

Willie, one of the two males in our household, and I packed up sandwiches among juice boxes, a few beers and plenty of water, and soon enough we made our way by foot (I with bike in hand for another post-drumming pre-ride) to the designated drumming circle at the side of a long fire road climb. Art, the other male in our condo and the man behind Mt. Snow’s famed and beloved drummers, was to race semi-pro; and teammates, Marianne and Jennifer were to race sport shortly after.

It was a long day of maracas, cheese graters, bongos, and beating drums; but the extra motivation we gave to suffering riders as they chugged away, the rhythm for cadence we provided, and the appreciative smiles we received all combined to feed our ambition to keep on sending out a beat. We knew there would be times in our race tomorrow in which the drumming would become our lifeline.

3:01 PM

I headed out with teammates Aaron and Tom to cruise the second half of the course, check out the newly altered position of both my shifting and break levers, and get the legs going a little bit more than they had been hitting the foot pedal on a base drum. The pace was pleasant and we stopped to work several turns, attempting to decipher which lines would provide for minimum loss of momentum and maximum experience of enjoyment. After riding it was about due time to give several sets of legs a rest and cool-down in the pool. The moderately cold water became a sort of therapeutic weightlessness in which we could sink and rise, stretch, kick, hold breath, and glide. It felt as though we were at summer camp, and one knows that at summer camp abbreviated dips in the pool (or river) must be followed up by several intense matches of foosball and Ping-Pong (table tennis for the mature). After being shut out in both games of skill, I tucked my tail between my legs and headed off for a family meal of homemade lasagna and fresh salad, followed of course by ice cream—fulfilling enough to make me forget about my lack of table tennis skills.

I prepared clothing and bottles, laid out gels, CO2, and a multi-tool, and followed up with a once-over on the bike before practicing bottle feeds and drops with Aaron. It was a good night, indeed, and I was off to bed. To my surprise, though, just after midnight our room was awoken by the thunder and wind of a storm that seemed to have opened up directly over our sleeping giant. The intensity of the rain was akin to that of a waterfall, and with this I smiled to myself, feeling the energy of the elements and knowing what such a deluge would translate to on the next morning’s course. I imagined the giant chuckling a little to himself, his belly moving ever so slightly in his laughter.

Saturday July 19, 2008

5:27 AM

Fumbling fingers turn the grooved nobs of tableside lamps; eyes squint in confusion and disbelief as a new glow instantly fills rooms of slumber. Pairs of bare feet shuffle into bathrooms, make their way into a kitchen, and patter onto a living room carpet where white sheets outline the rise and fall of two semi-dormant bodies. The sound and smell of percolating addiction crawls into every corner of the morning and soon shuffling feet have legs and torsos, arms and fingers, minds, sinew and voice; we are almost awake. I am spreading sweet almond butter atop Aaron’s handmade bread, then pushing full berries of blue into the tawny paste, then drizzling honey and watching it slide slowly like lava into the spaces between. A refilled water bottle, hardboiled egg, and vitamins complete the picture and I am sitting in order to commence consumption. With two hours until race time the temperamental disposition of a nervous stomach is just about reaching its culmination in terms of intensity; breakfast is a forced operation, my teeth and tongue masticating but when it comes time for my esophagus to follow through with peristalsis, it is failing miserably and I am feeling the food creep down inside, only far enough to be out of sight. Eyes closed, I am inhaling the remains, allowing a vitamin and some water to float downstream. I am leaving the others to finish their pre-race meals, moving away from the table in order to finish getting ready.

6:03 AM

I am at the sink scrubbing a toothbrush and mint green gel over the white of my teeth. I am nauseous. I am refunding the morning’s bread, blueberries, egg, and honeyed almonds—six times over. An undigested vitamin is popping out among the mess; undigested everything is ejecting itself from my body. Although now I am worrying about not having enough nutrition and fluids to endure the race, I am feeling significantly better. I am praying that I have eaten enough at last night’s dinner, and hydrated enough over the past few days, to not be depleted for the upcoming hours.

6:55 AM

I am dressing in my Saturday’s best, smearing sunscreen, filling my back pouches, adopting two water bottles from the fridge, and heading out for a warm-up with the ladies. The morning is dew-laden and peaceful as we are making our way over to the base area. We are raising the rates of our hearts, getting into zones, and then letting them recede; we are sipping liquids, spinning lactic acid from shaved legs; we are nerves and concentration, hidden smiles and grumbling innards; we are preparing for the worst yet visualizing the greatest.

7:50 AM

After sufficient warm-up and multiple trips to the bathroom, we are lining up for staging purposes in the start/finish area. Officials are cracking jokes and scrawling fat black numbers across our calves. 36. Words of encouragement are coming from Marianne and are passing through my ears while I am absorbing the details of a moment in time. She is snapping a shot with her digital camera and the moment is being transfixed in pixels. The closer we get to the line, the more silent people are becoming. Thirty seconds. I am taking several deep breaths to open up the things that need opening. Fifteen seconds. I am in a tunnel, concentrated and determined to feel that light at the end. Go.

10:12 AM

I feel as though new barriers have been broken, personal ones, as I am letting tears of contentment make their way down my mud-splattered cheeks. Something clicked. Something within me had clicked and my inner mantras, combined with the drumming, took over to carry me through. Aaron’s words, “who wants to suffer more, you or them?” were one of my mantras, as was a Joss Stone tune, followed by the occasional repetition of the name Mary McConneloug. Who knows how certain mantras come about while racing, but if they keep you going then keep ‘em coming.

10:23 AM

I have never pushed that hard in my life, and when the three laps came to an end, I knew I had left everything out there. I knew I was undeniably satisfied with my riding and my effort, which was what I had hoped for, not to give up on myself. By the close of the race, I was fully aware that I had reached higher grounds on a personal level, and could ask for nothing more. The climbs were grueling. They seemed to scoff at you, daring you to cease your cadence. The giant egged us on and I egged on the giant. The descents were an amalgam of slick coffee grinds, off-camber root systems, and precarious, sweating rocks—it was heaven.

11:04 AM

Post-race nutrition most usually has to come in a liquid form, otherwise my stomach does not seem to take too well. Chocolate milk is usually the beverage of choice; and so, sipping on a box of cold cow’s milk I found pleasure in the realization that I would have the opportunity to race again tomorrow in the Super-D. I was grateful to be done, but excited about the idea of another race, one that would take about ten minutes as opposed to two hours. The notion was as refreshing as my post-race beverage of choice.

12:07 PM

After showering with all of my muddied clothing still on, including my shoes, it was back over to the tent for awards. Not only was I overwhelmed with my personal performance, but making my way to the podium for top three allowed me to fulfill one of several goals for the year. It was a blessing and I knew I had worked hard all winter for it—mentally, spiritually, and physically. Although it was rather unexpected, I knew I had it in me somewhere, and I was just thankful to have found it.

1:57 PM

My entire family from the condo, male and female alike, headed back up the mountain to drum for the last two races: pro women followed by pro men. Our teammate, Aaron Oakes, would most likely appreciate the support amidst the sear of a mid-day sun and a menacing pro field. Rhythms and chants sifted about in the humidity as riders seemed to find enough energy to give gratitude through grins, fist-pumps, and saddle-top dances. The energy was conjoint electricity, perhaps something that emerged from a shared suffering and a common goal.

4:45 PM

Back at the condo a few of us donned bathing suits and headed to the pool for some much needed weightless relaxation. The ensuing night’s activities consisted of attending the annual Naked Crit and staying up until half past four in the morning to talk and wrestle and simply be a kid again.

Sunday July 20, 2008

4:27 AM

I fall into a blissful state of sleep.

6:30 AM

Breakfast was had, though not much due to the previous morning’s purging escapade. This I do not care to repeat. My eyes barely care to remain open, but the Super-D course beckoned as we reached the end of a lengthy lift line for a pre-run. I was not quite awake, but after airing slightly off of a water bar at a reasonable speed and having my left foot unclip, I became quite alert. Superman slides along loose fire roads do way more for your senses than a cup of Folgers any day. With fresh blood painting my legs and a new sense of heightened awareness, I headed back up the lift with the team, five women deep, in order to line up for the le mains start. It was a sprint, with bike in hand, up a steep grass incline, to a mount at the red line atop the hill. Waiting around for too long of a time up top was reason enough for all of us ladies to need to empty our bladders several times over. At the line, hearing go, I reminded myself that I have been trail running on my off days and mustered first up the climb. Two girls ran by while I was attempting to clip in and hopped into the lead, and the race would finish the same—I am now aware that I must practice my uphill mount, or at least remember to wait until the ground is level before hopping on. An eleven minute adrenaline rush and then it was over, yet I was still high and wanting to do it again. Quick fixes are fleeting and ephemeral, but this one seemed to last a good two hours after. Awards were attended and my teammates in the women’s 40 plus open category took a podium sweep with first, second, third, and fifth. Once again, I unexpectedly yet contentedly slotted third in my open women 19-29 category. Without a moment’s rest, it was back to the condo to quickly pack and clean, shower and scarf down some food. Keys were returned and as soon as we had arrived we were gone.

Now.

For my family and my team, for my experiences and the people I meet along the way; for the races, for the effort, for the love, the perseverance, the pain, the blessings; for the support, for the challenge, for the opportunity to show I am grateful by living my passions—I am thankful. I am content in the present, yet I look forward to that which has yet to come. I am thankful.

Is it raining or am I just sweating profusely?

Just to note, JORBA Fest was a blast this past Saturday. Over 500 cats showed up just to participate in the ongoing rides at Allamuchy. All of the volunteers worked hard to get this thing off the ground. Here's to a job well done.



Needless to say, the deeper of the river crossings were well accepted this Sunday at Six Mile Run, where Jen, Johan and I traipsed around on our single speed rigs (mine was borrowed, thank you, Johan). There is something so refreshing about having one gear; either you ride things or you don't. I prefer the former.

Welcome to the Jungle

We've got fun and games. Wendi (alternate alien pseudonyms: Wenid, Idwen, Endiw) and I took a nice spin through Jungle Habitat today. It was raining and smelled thickly of seasons changing, a superb amalgam for the senses. Midway through the ride I noticed what I thought was a fly crawling out from the vents in her helmet, but with a closer look my eyes adjusted to see a spider donning a spiked egg sack plotting her way across an intricacy of web-laden helmet. Gross because it was on her head; cool because the assumed egg sack came equipped with its very own means for impalement. Not even an infomercial could offer that kind of prenatal protection. Score 'plus 2' for the ingenuity that is Mother Nature. After observing, and becoming both disgusted yet intrigued at the same time, we carefully removed the spiked punk from her helmet and continued on our way. Other animal highlights of the ride included the following unconfirmed and somewhat vague eyewitness sightings: three ferocious bear, or three sweet Bermese Mountain Dogs accompanied by their master; a massive, man-swallowing python, or the umbilical chord of a tree; seven monkeys; and, of course, a donkey.

Smells like it, looks like it, must be: the early signs of fall

Cruising around Ringwood a week or so ago I came across the first crimson leaf cluster of an impending autumn. It was an exquisite patch of red glow hovering somewhere between summer foliage and post-rain soil. The contrast alone was flooring. Since then, leaves seem to have been morphing into the golden children they are, and taking their destined paths to forest floors everywhere. This Wednesday's ride at Jungle Habitat was soon enough drenched in the honey of an early September sun preparing to awaken some other part of the world; the lighting and the leaves, not to mention the company, were magnificent to say the least.

Swingwood, Ringwood, Blingwood, and Opposite Day

I figured today's local H2H race at Ringwood would stand as a sufficient gauge in seeing how my body had recovered from last weekend's Shenandoah Mountain 100. With the start delayed by about two hours due to an unfortunate sport-category crash necessitating a helicopter, most riders had warmed up and cooled down several times over before actually reaching the starting line. With turning wheels at last underway I immediately hooked onto the draft of MTBNJ's Ellen Serruto, who in turn had latched onto Janel Demeter of Guy's Racing. This train of three did not last for long, though, as I heard the encroaching voice of my legs questioning what, pray tell, was it that I thought I was doing? We had a heart-to-heart and eventually they decided it was time to warm up, sort-of-not-really, to the situation at hand. The rest of my body, however, was not keen on the idea, vehemently so, and actually made an independent decision that today was officially Opposite Day. Remember Opposite Day from when you were a kid? It kind of ran in the same vein as the whole 'not' fad and often called for exchanges such as, "My friend likes you...By the way, it's opposite day;" emphasis on the word opposite. Whether you can recall OD from way back when or not, it was always a rather confusing time of year that surmounted to nothing much more than convoluted relations among little boys and girls everywhere. Fortunately, even though my body participated in cold sweats for the duration of the race (my upper torso and lower half were playing OD amongst themselves) it was not to no avail. In fact, the entire situation proved to be rather beneficial in that it told me not everything had recovered fully from last weekend. Fair enough. With this in mind I was able to tell myself that I just needed to keep a rhythm, push through, and enjoy this opportunity to ride my bike in the meantime. Despite the physical condition of my body being less than favorable, the actual flow of my riding felt like creamy peanut butter over sliced Gala apples: smooth, sweet, and healthily satisfying. Technical climbs and descents have always been something through which I have found great peace and fulfillment, and so I discovered a sense of liberation in ignoring the ploys of Opposite Day and embracing the endless configurations of rock and root before me. This was home turf, why not enjoy it?

On a whole, I was glad I participated, having gained the consolation prize of insight and learning where my body was and was not after the past few weekends of long-er distance racing. Although I felt as though I had been keeping less than a desirable pace at times, it turned out my laps were fairly fast and I surprisingly ended up finishing within minutes of Hotwheels (Campmor's Darlene Phillips) and, within a few more minutes, of Demeter and Serruto; guess I'm glad it was Opposite Day after all.

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.

The essence of anachronistic accounts; It's All in the Family

With over 500 competitors attending the 10^th annual Shenandoah Mountain 100 the atmosphere was nothing short of a grassroots festival. At the local Stokesville campgrounds a myriad color of parked cars, Porto-Johns, tents and Ez-ups scattered the outskirts of the start/finish area. Saturday’s check-in and registration was followed by a classic pre-race meal of spaghetti and meatballs. Despite the number of hungry riders eager to fill their stomachs, dinnertime was a rather relaxed mixture of conversation and laughter among a gathering of distant members of the same cycling family.

The evening rolled on with the hoot and holler of a rowdy riders’ meeting, and eventually night blanketed the sacred mountains of Virginia. Headlamps and flashlights searched for tent zippers leading to slumber and just before midnight an assembly of clouds decided to deluge the sleeping campers below. Bellows of thunder accompanied illuminating flashes of energy between each drop of rain and the next day’s course became progressively more interesting. The campsite faded into sleep amid sheets of rain and pages of mountain bikers’ dreams.

The following morning a rain-soaked pre-dawn darkness greeted hundreds of five a.m. risers rubbing fistfuls of night from their eyes. The breakfast scene was typical—bagels and boiling oatmeal water, peanut butter and bananas—and within minutes of consumption the diffused light of an overcast day began to stretch itself over those preparing for the trek ahead. Come six-thirty there was just enough light to get a clear view of the multi-colored sea of spandex congregating about the start/finish area. With a simple “go” the click of cleats entering pedals resounded as hundreds of members of the same family embarked on a hundred mile odyssey through the Shenandoah Mountains of Virginia.

No more than ten minutes into the ride did I find myself with a swollen tongue and sore throat after having ejected some sort of bee from the depths of my mouth. Was this a premonition of things to come or a minor hindrance to surmount?—I decided on the latter and kept a steady pedal while attempting to assuage some of the pain with squirts of cool water. It was not until we hit the first singletrack climb that my throat actually began to close, thus restricting the necessary flow of oxygen to my already out-of-breath body—needless to say, I pulled to the side and began to yell in hopes that someone might have the denouement to my particular dilemma. Someone did. Kristin Eddy, who turns out is the second ever female to win an off-road iron distance triathlon, was passing and happened to have a flask each of Ledum Palustre and Apis Mellifica, which when combined form an excellent homeopathic solution for the swelling caused by a bee sting. Thank you, Kristin.

With a freshly reopened throat I settled into enjoying the mixture of singletrack and fireroad descents and climbs, all of them fairly long in length, that straight up begged me to partake in the greatness they had to offer. Throughout the day, several mantras played consistently inside my mind, with frequently interjected guest appearances of a few choice songs. As well, I remained focused on a list of simple yet personal goals: no longer than seven minutes at each aid station; middle ring or nothing, granny gear was not an acceptable option; push the limits of turning; love and appreciate what you are doing (this one goes without saying); complete what you have started. I am grateful to say that all of my goals were achieved, and as a bonus my low expectations in terms of projected finishing time were knocked clear out of the water when I arrived at the campgrounds at 10:58.56 to take 11^th in an open field of 40 plus women. I’ll take that for my first shot at a 100 miler.

My goals, however, might not have been so obtainable without, at least, two outside factors: the first was the dedication of all the volunteers at each blessed aid station—the smorgasbord of heavenly comestibles, the tech support eager to lube a thousand grimy chains, the youth and adults alike prompt to refill bottle after bottle with your beverage of choice; the second was Al Yoon, of GFK Racing, whom I encountered shortly after leaving aid station 4 (mile 57). Feeling a little sluggish in the false flats, I asked Al if he minded my sitting on his wheel for a bit. He did not, and for the remainder of the race Al and I would trade back and forth; pacing, pushing, and encouraging one another; devouring, consuming, and rushing through aid stations; keeping the flow rolling and constant. We would finish the race together, high-fiving as our grins crossed the finish line. I am a firm believer that we cross paths with people for a reason, however blatant or indeterminable that reason might be; Kristin and Al reaffirmed my belief, and with that, a hundred miles of riding mountains reached a culmination at contentment and peace. In retrospect, I have come to the conclusion that it was more than simply a solo effort. Rather, it was a family working together towards a common goal, a unity without which I might not have faired as well. Certainly, I could have gone it alone, and physically I did; yet, why deny the fact that we are here to help each other out, to learn from one another? If we begin as family, regardless of the outcome of events, we still end as family, comprised of those who we have affected and those who have affected us; and that, perhaps, is what we must remember to take home in the end.

Top Five Men

Chris Eatough 7:14.19

Sam Koerber 7:26.55

Jeff Schalk 7:37.25

Chris Beck 7:39.05

Aaron Oakes 7:41.51

Top Five Women

Cheryl Sornson 9:08.14

Trish Stevenson 9:19.42

Betsy Shogren 9:44.13

Johanna Kraus 9:57.11

Andrea Dvorak 9:59.11