I've been racing for approximately 17 minutes, and my body and bike are basically fucked. I didn't waste time taking inventory of the damages, but the scraping of my CamelBak strap against my chest and the sharp pain from each deep breath tell me I might regret my choice to keep racing.
Soon I realize that my lower back feels like I've worked in a stock room for the past decade. I constantly get out of the saddle to stretch it while losing any and all momentum I was fortunate enough to have accumulated on the undulating trail.
Allow me to describe the loop: a 7.25-mile loop that seems to climb for the first three miles, twist and turn for another three, and end with relatively flat, fast doubletrack. At the bottom of one singularly difficult switchback that starts an impossible climb (both the girl directly in front me and I have to walk it both times) a course spotter shouts encouragement.
"Alright man, lookin' good! You're in sixth place!" he tells me the second time around. This surprises me just a bit; I've spent the last hour and a half riding as hard as I can, which is not as fast as it would be sans wreck, yet somehow I haven't lost much ground.
I've halted to catch my breath. I've walked up hills. I've scooted around corners, over roots, through mud. I've come to a complete stop to drink from my CamelBak, totally defeating its purpose.
Without bragging, I'm possibly more filthy than I have ever been in my life. Every inch of bare skin is carpeted in a seemingly impermeable veil of wet, dank mud. Leaves cling to my freshly shaven legs and to my previously clean drivetrain. The fall already made my chain about as useful as a wet noodle, but the mud bogs it down without regard to its already flimsy state.
Not all of the dirt is on my outside, though. I eat a heaping tablespoon of soil during the race, taking in grit and sludge every time I drink from my water bottle or eat a packet of Gu.
Another spotter stands near the end of the loop, pointing out mile 7 and 14. I don't have a computer, which makes judging how far I've raced (and conserving the necessary energy) nearly impossible the first time around. The second loop should be easier, but I'm tired from being restricted to three gears, and from throwing my chain every time an incline taunts me.
I thought mountain biking was my bread and butter, but the course makes me momentarily reconsider. As my mud-caked knobbies hum down the asphalt toward transition, I realize I have rarely been so relieved to dismount the old aluminum hardtail that is painted black and blue, much like the current state of my torso.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Poise and Ivy, Part 1
This is not an exposition on life. It's a story about a bike wreck, and about the pain that comes from winning (yes, winning). And maybe perseverance. If somehow it reveals the secret of happiness, all the better. But the thick skin of mud and grease and urushiol really is the centerpiece.
August 8, 2009. Morristown, Tennessee. The alarm is set for 6 a.m., early enough to repack the truck and find the registration table for the XTERRA Panther Creek Triathlon.
Unfortunately, because Allan and I have been sleeping cramped in the bed of my truck on a pallet of four flannel sleeping bags, slow-cooking for the last eight hours in 90+ degree heat while rain seeps in through the screen windows and eventually the tailgate, we are reluctantly awake at 5:51.
The ends of our sleeping bags (and, subsequently, our feet) are damp from the downpour. With just the pale glow of campground lights to guide us, we stumble around, trying to repack our bikes and gear into the truck. The day brightens with each passing minute, as much as a bleary, rain-soaked day can. We find the transition area at the boat dock, and as I try to keep my checkbook dry, the volunteer tells me I will have to pay $15 extra for a T-shirt because I didn't pre-register. Needless to say, I'm not a happy camper.
During a brief hiatus in the rain, we start the 800-meter swim. Whether by talent, luck or some combination of the two, I am one of the first to exit the water and start preparing for the 14.5-mile mountain bike ride. Though the transition is relatively slow -- putting on gloves and a CamelBak takes nearly 60 precious seconds -- I feel good as I mount my trusty Trek 6700 and and turn left onto Deer Run trail.
Within the first 200 yards, I've passed one competitor, a guy who looks to be a little older than me and also a serious cyclist. Racing in the wet is new to me; I normally respect Mother Nature and stay off trails in such conditions because, by nature, I'm an "environmentalist." But I feel good. Confident, like my tires are sticky, like they belong on the rain-slicked roots and limestone.
I'm wrong. I'm too fast--not the usual complaint of a semi-serious competitor. The trail is too eroded; the roots are too diagonal. I'm too cocky. I'm also hurtling over the handlebars, toward a still-unidentified blunt object with which my ribs become forcibly acquainted.
A groan / expletive escapes. The pain in my tailbone and lower back don't register until I pull myself to my knees. The wind is out of my sails, "sails" being a pleasantly nautical-themed substitution for "lungs." I can't move.
He passes me and asks if I'm ok. I don't know yet, and I say so. I can talk; that's a good sign.
Two more guys pass me, also checking on my condition. Yeah, I say.
A girl passes me, with an obligatory "Alright?" All she gets is a grunt.
Back on my bike, my ass isn't sure it wants to continue. There surely are scrapes, but it's not the time to check. I start pedaling slowly, approaching the next turn cautiously. So far, so good, except for the clicking sound from my chain. Soon, my rear derailleur ghost-shifts one gear higher and returns. After about 20 more pedal strokes, it happens again. This is going to be a long day.
August 8, 2009. Morristown, Tennessee. The alarm is set for 6 a.m., early enough to repack the truck and find the registration table for the XTERRA Panther Creek Triathlon.
Unfortunately, because Allan and I have been sleeping cramped in the bed of my truck on a pallet of four flannel sleeping bags, slow-cooking for the last eight hours in 90+ degree heat while rain seeps in through the screen windows and eventually the tailgate, we are reluctantly awake at 5:51.
The ends of our sleeping bags (and, subsequently, our feet) are damp from the downpour. With just the pale glow of campground lights to guide us, we stumble around, trying to repack our bikes and gear into the truck. The day brightens with each passing minute, as much as a bleary, rain-soaked day can. We find the transition area at the boat dock, and as I try to keep my checkbook dry, the volunteer tells me I will have to pay $15 extra for a T-shirt because I didn't pre-register. Needless to say, I'm not a happy camper.
During a brief hiatus in the rain, we start the 800-meter swim. Whether by talent, luck or some combination of the two, I am one of the first to exit the water and start preparing for the 14.5-mile mountain bike ride. Though the transition is relatively slow -- putting on gloves and a CamelBak takes nearly 60 precious seconds -- I feel good as I mount my trusty Trek 6700 and and turn left onto Deer Run trail.
Within the first 200 yards, I've passed one competitor, a guy who looks to be a little older than me and also a serious cyclist. Racing in the wet is new to me; I normally respect Mother Nature and stay off trails in such conditions because, by nature, I'm an "environmentalist." But I feel good. Confident, like my tires are sticky, like they belong on the rain-slicked roots and limestone.
I'm wrong. I'm too fast--not the usual complaint of a semi-serious competitor. The trail is too eroded; the roots are too diagonal. I'm too cocky. I'm also hurtling over the handlebars, toward a still-unidentified blunt object with which my ribs become forcibly acquainted.
A groan / expletive escapes. The pain in my tailbone and lower back don't register until I pull myself to my knees. The wind is out of my sails, "sails" being a pleasantly nautical-themed substitution for "lungs." I can't move.
He passes me and asks if I'm ok. I don't know yet, and I say so. I can talk; that's a good sign.
Two more guys pass me, also checking on my condition. Yeah, I say.
A girl passes me, with an obligatory "Alright?" All she gets is a grunt.
Back on my bike, my ass isn't sure it wants to continue. There surely are scrapes, but it's not the time to check. I start pedaling slowly, approaching the next turn cautiously. So far, so good, except for the clicking sound from my chain. Soon, my rear derailleur ghost-shifts one gear higher and returns. After about 20 more pedal strokes, it happens again. This is going to be a long day.
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