Poise and Ivy, Part 2

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.