The Mad Madder's Blog

Didn’t I Say I’d Never Do This Again?! | July 2, 2010

It’s true. Last year, after suffering through the almost three and a half torturous muddy horrific excruciating hours that was the Williams Lake Classic, I promised I would NEVER EVER EVER do that to myself again. But, true to the Maddie precedent for never learning my lesson, there I was, a year later, packing my car to head for Rosendale, NY for the real beginning of my cross country racing season and the first race in the New York State Mountain Bike Series: The Williams Lake Classic.

I wasn’t excited to be going. In fact, it was a good thing I wasn’t carpooling since I was being pretty damn impossible to be around. I had pre-registered, largely to avoid allowing myself to bag day of. I had a myriad excuses for why I didn’t want to be there. I woke up at 5am to a glorious thunderstorm. ‘Perfect!’ I think. ‘This will keep me from racing!’ But no. A quick check of the radar showed clear skies. Blah.

So I headed out on the road and arrived there in more than enough time to warm-up. And there was my next excuse: It was too warm. Hot even. Wicked hot. Muggy, deadly, evil, horrid hot. As I pre-rode the beginning of the course, I could feel the red rising, coursing to my face, pulsing blistering blood through my veins. Canadians don’t do this kind of weather. I would bag. Sure I’d paid to race. Sure I was being a wimp. But I didn’t want to race! I hate racing.  I wanted to go back to bed. Blah.

My delightful mood continued as I headed to line up for my start time and I was informed (excuse #3 to go home) that I would be racing not the two laps of the 5 mile course that bikereg.com had stated but three laps. Not that 15 miles is an insane distance to contest, especially since the course this year had been changed and wasn’t a wet slop like the year before. But when you’ve prepared yourself for 10 miles, a 50% increase in race distance minutes before your first pedal stroke is not welcome. Blah.

Fine. Whatever. I was there. I was on my bike. My number was attached. I guess I’d be racing. (Perhaps I should hire someone to go to races with me and smack me upside the head when I start whining…I bet my sister would do it.)

So the combined 12 or so racers in the Cat 2 women’s field (Cat 2 12-35 (me) and Cat 2 35+ (not me)) were on the line, ready to follow the Cat 2 men’s fields already on course. I wasn’t sure which women were racing against me and which where in the masters field. I guessed I would just try my best to beat them all.

So, when the official gave us the go ahead, I stood over my pedals and started cranking. I was absolutely positively determined to get to the first climb as far in the lead as possible. The beginning of the race course had a long straight open flat before entering the woods and rising on a mild grade to the first climb. I put all my road miles to work and put a good gap on the next racer in the field. So far all according to plan.

Reaching the climb, I found a string of Cat 2 Masters and Singlespeed racers strung up the slope. I had pre-ridden this part of the course and found it infinitely rideable. I needed to be able to pass the racers pushing their bikes in order to maintain my lead. Luckily, in a small miracle, for the first time in my XC racing career, people actually moved out of my way in time. I managed to pass almost ten men by the top of the first climb and couldn’t see the woman chasing me in second place. Nice.

But this auspicious start was not a sign of things to come in that first lap. The oppressive humidity was making it hard to breathe, a feeling that only worsened as we rode in and out of the frigid breath from the area’s cave mouths. Lungs contracted at the chill only to be shocked anew by the heavy damp. Riders bunched as racers ahead failed to clean the slick rock sections that wove across the main carriage road. Here the riders stopped being able to get out of the way. Try as I might I just couldn’t make progress. I lost my rhythm as I was repeatedly forced to run my bike through sections I could clean easily were there not people ahead of me. I tried to fight down my aggravation. Tried at every opportunity to spot my challenger behind me. Where was she? Was she gaining? Was she gaining? Did I need to keep redlining? Would these people just get out of my way so I could RIDE my bike? ARGH!

So I decided that I would quit after that lap. I was winning. My legs felt fine. But  I was hot and cranky and being bratty. So I would quit. And then deal with the voice that would taunt me forever after. But I didn’t care. I hated bike racing and I didn’t want to do another lap, let alone two. BIKE RACING SUCKS!

And finally, after one taunting glimpse of the finish line before plunging back into the woods, I found myself nearing the finish line to tell the officials I was done and hang my head in shame. Ugh.

But, much to my surprise, I found myself passing the line and continuing along the course. Hmm. I guess I wasn’t quitting yet. And a glance over my shoulder showed the next racer barely emerging from the woods to enter the lengthy spiral that led to the finish. I had a solid margin. Nice.

So I cranked along the flat, trying to increase my lead and get back to the fun single track sections after the initial climb. And this lap was coming easier. I found myself settling into a comfortable rhythm. I started to make friends, a habit I’ve fallen into in XC racing. A friendly singlespeed racer and I were leapfrogging places. I’d pass him on the climbs and he’d pass me on the downhills. Like wartime hostages finding love in shared suffering, a rough race lays a firm foundation for friendship. ‘God the beer is going to taste good at the end of this one!’ my new friend opined. ‘I’ve forgotten to bring any!’ I cried. ‘I brought Harpoon. Come have one after.’ Brilliant!

And along we continued, turning over the pedals, crashing in corners, passing and being passed. Then suddenly, a glance over my shoulder showed a flash of yellow and the whip of a blonde ponytail barely a bike length behind me. Gak. So much for cruising comfortably along until the finish. I couldn’t very well be that jerk and not let her pass me. So pass me she did. I wasn’t terribly worried. I had reserves and I knew I could kick it up a notch. I’d just have to keep her in sight and wait until the flat before the last lap to pass her back.

But then a little clever voice in my head piped up: ‘Ask her which field she’s in…Don’t waste energy if you don’t need to….It’s too f#@%ing hot!’ And so I asked. ‘Um..Would you think it rude if I asked your age?’ (That’s verbatim.  Odd word choice in the middle of a race perhaps but that’s how I roll.) She laughed a little and answered: ‘Not at all. I’m in the 35+.’ YAY! ‘Okay then. I won’t chase you.’ Not necessarily the most impressive attitude. I suppose I should have kept trying to beat her anyway on principal but it was hot and I’m lazy. ‘Have fun! Nice ride!’

I kept her pretty much in sight for the rest of the next lap, catching frequent glimpses and expending exactly zero effort to close the gap. There was no sign of a racer behind me so I kept my effort consistent, slightly faster than the second lap if only to get it over with and get off of my bike.

And then the miracle that is the finish line appeared shimmering in the distance like a Saharan mirage. Please let this be real! I want to be done! I flew down the drop that led into the spiral and cranked hard across the line. Done. Done. Done. Done!

I spun my legs out for a few minutes trying to quell the rising nausea from the combined powers of heat and effort. Then a quick change into my bathing suit and a glorious dive into the lake that gave the race its name. As the chill waters closed over my satisfied grin, I thought to myself: ‘So this is what winning feels like. I could get used to this.’

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