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.
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.
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.
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.
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 5th 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.
With over 500 competitors attending the 10th annual ShenandoahMountain 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 ShenandoahMountains 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 11th 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.
So, here's a short, low-quality clip of Aaron's trunk full of junk atop his spinning, sweating legs. As requested, I made an attempt to focus on the calf area; yet, less than ideal lighting combined with my running behind him yielded fair to medium results. Regardless, Aaron's derriere pulled it together to make for an overall stellar cinematic debut. Great job, Aaron.
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.
