Saturday was my first cross race ever. I did a moderate amount of training the week previous and built my XO-1 with MOD (my boss) the night before the race. I had no prior experience racing cross, and had never attended a training clinic or even ridden a cyclocross bike for more than a jaunt around the parking lot.
This is the wrong way to do a race. Not that I had a bad race, but it is not the proper way to race. One should never race on a brand new bike without any test-riding, nor should one dive in head first without any sort of practice.
I began in 99th position of about 115 starters and raced in the 4s. Beginner class. When the gun went off, I in turn gunned it as soon as I could, and went for as many passes as possible in the first lap. This is racing aggressively.
I've always known how to race aggressively in the "attack and attack hard when the opportunity presents itself" sort of way. It was not until this year that I learned what it meant to always race aggressively, but it has made a huge difference. One needs to realize that in a cross or MTB race, sitting in when the pack is all together is a terrible idea. You need to always jockey for position, because it will eventually string out, and split up, and suddenly the opportunities to even race for a top 10 spot are gone. So I rode quite aggressively the first lap and got back up in the field quite a ways. However, by the time I got back up toward the front, it had strung out and the many corners of the course made it string out far and fast. Recovering for a lap or two, I then had to be sneakier about my attacks and moves. I'd find a group, observe for a bit to decide where it would be best to attack them, and ride accordingly. Most of my moves were made in the tighter sections, or the greasey, off-camber areas that some tried to ride, and I would run faster. Many time it was line choice that determined how I would attack.
And then I met my match in David Studner. He is a product manager at Trek, fast roadie, and an all-around awesome dude. After seeing him just before the run-up, and being prompted by Carol to catch him, I drilled it to get on his wheel. He was quick through the power sections, and I fell back a bit. Then, at some technical, and off-camber parts, I got up next to him. Then it opened up again and he would pull in front of me. I knew, however, that I had him in difficulty in the tight, wooded chicane, and made my pass when he rode wide on a left-handed off-camber turn, and I ran the inside line. We were next to each other going into the right-hand hairpin, and coming out. Side-by-side in the squishy-ground straight, and I found the firmer line and drilled it.
I rode alone the rest of the lap and finsihed 16th. Not a podium, but I'll take it.
In bicycle race reporting, the adjective “epic” has been repeated to the point of losing meaning. Today, I would like to explain why the Chequamegon Fat Tire 40 can justifiably be called epic. To clarify:
Epic (definition)(Wikipedia) narratives are usually in a poetic format, and tell a story that is significant to the history of a culture. They begin “in media res,” which means “into the midst of affairs.” Epics include heroes who embody the values of a culture, broad, expansive consequences and settings, and long lists. They show divine intervention and include great, long, speeches. They also begin with the invocation of a muse. While this is not going to be an epic poem, I will provide examples of how a description of one’s particiation in the Fat Tire 40 could be justifiably described in this format.
An invocation of a muse could go something like this:
Shaw taught me how to race it. Shaw, the decade-long pro race tech, with multiple team wins under his belt, with NORBA championships, with knowledge beyond knowing. Shaw said to be careful on the road before Rosie’s field. That chains would drop on that hill, chains would snap. Shaw taught me where to push and where to recover. He taught me which tires, what food, when to suck wheel and how to know when to go. Shaw showed me how to finish The Chequamegon Fat Tire 40.
So then we’d jump “in media res” and get right to the action of the race. Not the fast road start, not the blast through Rosie’s Field as Ride Of the Valkyries plays on giant speakers. It would begin on the fast Birkebeiner Ski trails, where the real chaos starts:
Up a steep roller, ten riders wide, 1700 mountain bikers charged with a furious machination. 20 MPH on dirt and grass. Cresting the tree-lined hill, the momentum of our descent became more fluid, its fury waxing. 25 MPH. An endless river of helmets behind me, an endless river ahead. As many looked to be on the edge of control, a rider to my right locked his brakes and skidded his tires across the dew-slick Wisconsin Northwoods grass. He rotated right, whipped the bike back left, and went sideways, sliding out a few feet to my side. A shout, gears mashing, gears colliding, and I reminded myself to keep looking ahead. 30 MPH. Across the mass of bicycles and riders, near the front left of this hundred-rider group, I watched one drift closer and closer to the edge, eventually exploding into the trees. Before his cartwheeling body had crumpled to the ground, riders behind him were colliding with each other to avoid colliding with the downed rider. Crashing to avoid crashing; That oxymoronic madness is what briefly crept into my mind, until I shut it out, my mantra for the day settling into its rhythm:
Heads up, hands off the brakes, always have an exit line.
We continued our stampede, our spoke-flying rush, so often too close to one another for an hour before the training miles or hours in front of the television meted us into evenly-matched groups. At highway OO, the clock read 11:04. Were we halfway? Perhaps not in terms of mileage, and definitely not in terms difficulty.
What about lists? What could we list from Chequamegon? Well, bikes, duh. People show up on everything from prototype race bikes to 70’s tandem beach cruisers. One could also play with the fact that 29er bikes dominate this race, in particular Gary Fisher models:
I think we could also list the winners of previous 40s. It's a who's who of Midwest mountain biking, and would also give a sense of the history of the sport in this state.
The Chequamegon Fat Tire Festival first ran in 1983, in the dawn of mountain biking. The course itself consists of gravel road, ATV trail, and sections of rolling ski trail appropriated from the American Birkebeiner race. These trails are not what a modern XC mountain bike racecourse looks like, but the Chequamegon is still frequently called “The Midwest Mountain Bike World Championships.” Once everyone is finished, the Telemark Resort becomes a reunion party, where everyone’s accomplishments are re-lived, no matter the individual’s level of participation. This unity and diversity are core aspects of mountain biking culture. The versatility of the original Klunkers promoted wide use over all sorts of terrain, bringing together an odd assortment of road riders, thrill seekers, and outdoorsy families. The store of the Chequamegon Fat Tire 40 serves as a strong reminder of what Mountain Biking is all about, even when it’s about racing.
And here we have everyone together, from all aspects of mountain biking. In a single start wave, world-level professionals begin with cube-dwelling weekend warriors. It covers a distance at least ten miles longer than a normal professional course, and for many, simply finishing is an achievement. Those who are in contention for a win are there to make a name for themselves and hope to go down in history. How’s that for a wide scope?
What of the battles? How about man vs. man in the race, man vs. nature on the racecourse, and man vs. himself when considering those who simply hope to finish before the time cut? How about Brian Matter outsprinting Cole House for the win? What about Doug Swanson riding off the front at Rosie’s Field and winning solo? The Eppens finishing with the pros on the fastest tandem The 40 has ever seen? And what about Steve Tilford always returning after decades of pro racing and still landing in the top 3?
I'm not quite sure where divine intervention falls into this story, but I bet it's there for some. I've met a few who compare finding mountain biking to finding God. I'm sure there are some who have been just ten miles out with their third flat and a guardian angel steps out of the woods to hand the another tube. Lastly, for the author, the euphoria of racing at speeds topping 25 MPH in a field of hundreds is oddly comforting. It makes one feel a part of something greater than oneself.
The battles of Schlecks and Contadors on alpine slopes are more akin to the Gods of Olympus battling amongst themselves than the stories of Gilgamesh or Beowulf. The history of The 40 is as deep as the sport of mountian biking, and plays the role of an annual reminder to us all that no matter our level of participation, our mileage or talent, our wheel diameter or suspension setup, or the vintage of our bikes, mountain biking a unifying sport. And in an age of increased discipline diversity, The 40 should stand out as most epic for bringing those dispersed disciplines and riders together.
Last Sunday I did 40 miles at the Kettles to prep for the midwest mountainbike world championships. Other than Gehling breaking a swingarm with about 8 to go, it was a good ride. I'm hoping Fosler will pull me through most of the open stuff next weekend, and maybe I can pace him through the singletrack. That would work well. My form isn't as bad as I'd thought, as I managed a solid attack at 2 miles to go and stayed away.
This week I've done a few 3-hour road rides at tempo, and Friday I did 30 miles at Jim's trail as a final long MTB ride before Chequamegon. This week I'll taper off a bit and get ready to go for it next Saturday. I'm aiming for sub 3-hours in my first Fat 40.
How bout them World Championships? The XC was kinda "meh," except for Willow Koerber's 3rd (which was metal as hell). The real action was in the gravity events. Peaty finally won and Graves was rewarded for his patience. Justice was served for each of them.
I'm building a cross bike with an XO-2 frame, Rival, and some Bonty Classics wheels. Once it's done I'm not buying any bike stuff again for a long time. Until I have to buy a stationary trainer.
After some pretty good mid-season burnout, I decided it was time to stop riding my road bike. I like group rides on the road, and can usually handle about 6 months of road riding in a year. Lately, I haven't been able to do the three-hour rides on the road bike. It's just gotten boring, and the mountain bike beckons. Fall is the best mountain biking season.
In an effort to make some change in my training attitude I took out my Procaliber the other day, for a nice 2.5-hour jaunt through Madison, Verona, and Fitchburg. The mountain bike was a blast on climbs, and bombing descents was hilarious! I also spun out pretty frequently, which really helped me keep my cadence up on flat sections. Lastly, the squishy ride was oh-so-comfy. Excessive claim of the day:
Mountain is the new road!
So I did 2.5-hours Monday, 2 at Jim's on Tuesday, and am taking today as a recovery day. Tomorrow I'll do some more road, and Friday I plan on hitting up Cam-Rock with The Geo. Maybe the Kettles this Sunday?
I'm still ramping up for Chequamegon, and still have a goal of top 10% (top 250, approximately).
Today I woke up promptly at seven, my head aching, my bedroom messy (normally it's not like that), and my helmet missing. How does one conquer a hangover? Hammer Heed! How does one know one is getting in better shape for cycling? When 3 Jack and Cokes give you a hangover!
After chugging a bottle of Heed, I slept until ten and woke to a beautiful day, lots of motivation to ride, and no more headache! After taking the Simply City to Ground Zero, I began to get philosophical about riding bikes. Buckle up, kiddos...
Who inspires me to ride? Let's start with my coach, Aaron Whalen. Whale dropped his entire life in Madison on 24 hours notice to move to Colorado and pursue racing. He knows a thing or two about sacrifice, and when I'm feeling conflicted about racing, he always has good advice.
Next, Doug Swanson. He's fast as hell, he's a normal guy, and even though I've only met him once he impressed me with how down to earth he was. I would love to be half as fast as he is and still have my head on that straight.
Chris Shaw. Yes, Shawzam. I've known the guy for about a year, and one time he said something that I repeat to myself during every race. We were talking about using the brakes as little as possible on singletrack, and I asked him how he manages to descend entire sections without the brakes. Did he take the roughest line, or accelerate less? His response was no, "Sometimes you just gotta go for it." or as I paraphrase "You never know what you can't do until you crash." This year I've had some really good bails, and a few solid crashes, but I am way faster in singletrack than in my more cautious riding years' past.
Oh, and Shaw introduced me to Tony Chachere's, which has become a staple of my training diet.
I have been training. Or to use the passive voice, "Training has happened." The passive voice feels more appropriate, however incorrect, for the fact that I don't have a plan, and I've been riding without serious concern for where I'm going. I have been riding passively, so the passive voice can happen.
It's wonderful; I've simply been riding for the sake of riding.
A new favorite loop at Jim's, which I call the figure-8, rides as follows: Ascend The Old New trail, descend New New trail, ascend back up Old New, and then descend Five-Layer Cake and The Switch. Rinse, repeat, rip it.
I've been riding enough lately that I can drift the tires a bit in corners again. This is a skill I hope won't disappear with the leaves over the winter months. Gotta love gettin' loose.
I haven't raced since Alterra, and won't be racing again until Chequamegon, which is at the end of September. It will probably be my last race of the year. I've achieved what I'd hoped to do, which was to upgrade to cat. 1 (I'll do that once the season is over) and got 5 top 5 finishes.
The last month has been a hard one for training and racing. I was sick for about a week and a half after Eau Claire, and the past week has been occupied by the Trek dealer show; I simply had no time to ride. Then at the end of the week I got a nasty head cold, from which I'm only now recovering.
Tough month. And frustrating.
My hopes for the rest of the year involve increased bicycle commuting, improved training, more mountain biking, and perhaps even trying out cyclo-cross.
I also have a freeride bike for sale if anybody is interested. I built it this spring and haven't used it yet, so it's gotta go: Gary Fisher Kingfisher with upgraded suspension and an LX/XT drivetrain. Bontrager Big Earl Wheelset and Hayes disc brakes. $600 OBO.
And then I met my match in David Studner. He is a product manager at Trek, fast roadie, and an all-around awesome dude. After seeing him just before the run-up, and being prompted by Carol to catch him, I drilled it to get on his wheel. He was quick through the power sections, and I fell back a bit. Then, at some technical, and off-camber parts, I got up next to him. Then it opened up again and he would pull in front of me. I knew, however, that I had him in difficulty in the tight, wooded chicane, and made my pass when he rode wide on a left-handed off-camber turn, and I ran the inside line. We were next to each other going into the right-hand hairpin, and coming out. Side-by-side in the squishy-ground straight, and I found the firmer line and drilled it.
