Whew -- I think that was one of the hardest -- if not
the hardest -- races I have ever raced. Certainly the most intimidating. Nothing like riding at Cross Vegas!
Kirk raced last year; his race was the men's open which started at about 5:00 PM in roughly 103 degree Las Vegas heat. The grass was dry and thick, and I am fairly certain half of it was plastered to his face when he finished. He had fun, but the heat was terrible -- terrible enough that he opted to race the industry-only Wheelers and Dealers race this year. Race time was a considerably cooler 7:00 PM.
I didn't race last year. I remember watching with a mixture of relief and a little disappointment. Only a little though; it was hot just standing at the sidelines watching. (Well, no, one doesn't stand in one place -- one clambers all over the course watching from different vantage points and being at the side of the course at your racer's passing as much as possible to yell encouragement.) Plus I
never would consider riding the women's open category, and that was the only option for women.
Until this year. This year a women's category was added to the Wheeler and Dealers race. How could I not? After all, I don't really race; I just go for a bike ride with people I know (or in this case, don't and most likely will never see again.) And for me it's just a matter of riding the features better and hopefully faster with each lap. So on the day registration opened, we both signed up. Race day was roughly six weeks out.
In the interim a couple things happened. First, I remembered that the prior year's course had at least one flyer-over in it. A fly-over is a man-made structure with either a ramp up one side and down the other, or stairs up one side and a ramp down the other. Either way, the mere idea of a fly-over became an insomnia-generating monolith. It was
huge in my 3 AM brain -- more like a half pipe the Xtreme sports competitors ride on snowboards or skate boards. In my mind the top was a vertical wall with a 90 degree angle at the top, and I knew that couldn't be how they were because the bike would hit the corner at the bottom bracket. . . but at 3 AM, semantics are not negotiable. My worry was (of all things) the ride up; stairs up, no prob. The ride down -- well, hopefully I would survive. It was the ride
up that was the worry.
In addition, I got a new "A" bike, a Fuji. (In cross, the serious racers try to have two bikes, "A" and "B". The "A" bike is your primary racing bike; your "B" bike is set in the pit for an fast bike change should you flat or have some other mechanical.) It's a beauty; black with some turquoise and red details, it is a 1x11 speed, light weight, hydraulic disc brakes. It arrived in the shop on Saturday. My first ride on it was at the cross clinic Sunday. We left for Vegas on Monday. I noticed immediately how different the center of gravity was on it, compared to my Redline -- now my "B" bike. The Fuji is a smaller frame and fits me better. Once I figured out the subtle differences, it was an easy, joyful transition. At the clinic I played with it, got the "feel" for it. Then we hit the road.
My next ride on the Fuji was Tuesday morning in Flagstaff, Arizona. Kirk found a lovely, easy trail for us to ride, getting us a little saddle time the day before the race. Swoopy, non-technical single track on a fabulous solid surface, it was a wonderful way to get some more time in on the the new bike.
Then it was race time. Mike, our rep from Polar Bottle, pulled up next to us in the parking lot (surprise!), every one got their bikes ready, changed into kit, pinned race numbers, and headed over to the course. Kirk knew I was apprehensive about the fly-overs, so the plan was to ride the course in a leisurely manner. We put the "B" bikes in the pit, and entered the course from that point.
Grass, lots n lots of grass. So far, so good -- up some hills, down some, nothing I can't handle. On the back there was a fairly steep grassy hill. I am usually pretty good at climbing but even on the pre-ride I got off to run it. We got to the first fly-over, and voila! Keeping up some speed and looking at the top -- where I wanted to go -- it was no prob. It didn't even make me nervous. Whew. Relief! We kept pre-riding, and I was very aware of how hard I was working, how hot it was, how much grass there was.
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| Lots n lots n lots of grass. . . |
We rode about 3/4 of the course, then pulled off to get some water. I was feeling pretty apprehensive as we sat on the grass and drank cold water, and started noticing that most of the gals that I saw on bikes were pretty young. Like the age of my oldest daughter. Like 20. Hmmm.
Then it was time to gather at the start. The men's Wheelers & eaters group was maxed out at 150 riders. That's a lot of guys on bikes. All ages. All types, fitness levels, experience levels. Generally more fit and experienced than not, but quite the variety. The ladies gathered at the back, and I quickly took a head count (19 including me) and guessed average age (20, except two gals who were probably early 30s). I was very much the mom at the race. That's fine by me, I just asked them to be kind as they passed me! That's what is so awesome about cross: they were all so nice, ready to chat, and happy to mollify me by telling me I'd probably leave them in the dust. Hah! So NOT true!
It seemed like Kirk would never get his call up! He waited, and I waited, and we waited, and finally -- at place 135 or something -- he got his call up. I am unsure how those call-ups worked, but assume it was the prior year's points, years in the sport, greasing the palm (it IS Las Vegas!!) -- who knows.
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| Just a few guys at the start line…can you say sardines? |
I learned later that some of those guys are former cross champions, mountain bike champions, etc. who have retired and become bike shop owners, managers, distributors, anything in the industry. Wow. The competition was pretty fierce.
The guys got their count and did a mini-lap to start their race, sending them past us and out onto the course. We quickly lined up -- no call ups for the 19 of us -- and were sent off on our race fairly unceremoniously with me happily at the back of the pack.
I took off as hard as I could, and was genuinely dismayed to find myself immediately off the back. I really hit it as hard as I could -- but no good. Oh well, I figured I'd just ride my own ride, as always.
So far, so good as I hit the part of the course we didn't pre-ride (mistake!!!!). Up and down rollers, towards a man-made plywood banked turn, but I knew from Kirk that there was flat grass at the bottom at was legal to ride, so I stayed low. Past that there was a run up and some stairs. The pros would ride up those… they were more step ups with sand behind them. I dismounted and started up them, running-- at the top was a hairpin turn, back down the hill -- and I quickly discovered I was so tapped out that I had to pause before I could even consider remounting the bike. I was off the back, so I took the moment, got on the bike, and rode down the hill. It was never to be the same.
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| To my surprise, this was the hardest part of the course for me. It looked much steeper going down it that night! |
From there, one road much grass up a slight hill, down a left hander onto concrete (I remembered many racers crashing on that bit of concrete the prior year, and the transition from grass to concrete looked sketchy to me, so I took it at a controlled speed and did okay). Once on the pavement, there was a sharp right turn onto grass, and more rollers -- past the pit, more rollers, up that steep climb -- the one I'd dismounted and run on the warm up. From here, one hit the two fly-overs, sand (no prob!!!) and some off-camber slopes. I was good on all that, and even felt I kept some speed. But damn! It was hard. I was breathing really hard, I was going as hard as I could, and there was no place on the course that allowed any recovery.
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| One of those 20 year olds I was up against. |
My goal went from "not finishing last" to "finishing."
I went through the start/finish and the spectators yelled encouragement. I wanted to yell, "I'm old enough to be any of their mothers!" but knew that only meant something to me. As they say, "no excuses!"
Lap two -- keep going. Shut up, legs! I suddenly saw a guy in front of me. He could have been in ZZ Top. I passed him on a climb -- that's where I usually catch riders if I'm going to -- then he passed me on the descent and turns. We played tag briefly, then I passed him for once and for all. Okay, I'm not last -- even though he's not actually in my race.
I kept going, very aware of the load I was feeling in my quads. I was pushing so hard! The bike felt great, the handling was great, there was no point on the course where I really was uncomfortable -- except the hairpin on the hill -- but I couldn't seem to make a dent on the gap between me and the last gals, no matter how I tried.
I approach the hairpin turn on lap 3. I am about used up. I dismount, run the steps up to the top, get there, and can't compute getting back on the bike. I am at the top, facing the roll down and manage to get on the bike. And -- my bad -- I had stopped and was kind of frozen at the top of the hill, right in the best line for other racers. Sure enough, a guy comes up and plows straight into me. I was jolted back into action, sat down on the top tube and rolled down the hill, just to get out of the way. I felt so bad, impacting that guy's race as I did. I was too brain dead to function there for a moment. Once at the bottom of the hill, I was able to find my pedals, and lift myself up onto the saddle and get rolling. Geez, that was a drag, to realize how poorly I handled segment of course and that situation.
Slowly I did start to close the gap as the gal ahead of me was losing steam. We started playing tag. As we find so often in cyclocross, as I passed her the first time on a climb, she said to me, "Good job!" These racers are generally so friendly and mutually supportive. On the descent, she catches and passes me. I catch her on the next bit, and then she catches me on the next turn.
Next comes the steep uphill; nearly if not all of the ladies were running it, and I had long decided it was the best way to go for me. I knew it was the best place to catch and pass her, hopefully for the last time. Stick with the strategy: run the bill. I approach the hill, swing my right leg over the saddle, and BAM! I hit a guy right in his chest with my right foot. This guy, right behind me and on my wheel (I was so focused I didn't even know he was there) assumed I was riding the hill (and maybe thought he could draft me as I pulled him along). My dismount was a total surprise to him, and I caught him as I swung my leg over my saddle and his front wheel solidly collided with my rear wheel. He was very apologetic -- but the crash nearly took us both down after the impact. Keeping upright, he passed me and I continued up the hill. The gal I was on the verge of passing was long gone. At the top I remounted, and carried on toward the first fly-over.
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| The pros riding one of the fly-overs. |
As I approach the last section of course, a guy rides past me through the switch-back section and laughing, calls out that I should block the way of the guys behind him. I called back that I doubted I'd be much of a foil -- kept pedaling on, and learned as I approached that with this crossing of the finish I was done. I tried to finish strong with whatever energy was left. As I pedaled down, after being done, spectators held their hands out one after another to give me high fives -- it was so nice to even be acknowledged for being there, and doing that. Thanks, spectators!
I pulled off the course and there was Kirk, talking to one of our local racers, Andrew, who works at Santa Fe distributor BTI. I was so happy to stand there and catch my breath, and listen to them talk about their races.
Kirk's race was challenging from the get-go since he started so far back. He immediately passed a good number of people and plowed onward, through turns, the hairpin, up the grass, and onto the concrete. It was a place he figured others might grab some recovery and therefore decided to continue going hard, increasing his lead. He hit the concrete, made the right turn and woosh! the rear wheel slid right out. He landed so hard on his right hip he was initially afraid he had broken his pelvis. He sat for a moment to clear his head, then gingerly moved towards standing. Getting back on the bike, and finding he could pedal, he jumped back in.
And even with that crash, he finished 26 in his group (we have no way of knowing relative to the entire 150-strong field where he finished, as they started en mass but finishing placement was broken down into groupings).
Viva Cross Vegas! Will I do it again? Ask me next year. Right now the answer would certainly be no. Unless I learn how to handle that hairpin on the hill. . .
Post Script: So what was the big deal about my Fuji? The gearing. The bike was shipped with, as Kirk put it, gearing for 'a very strong young rider' (imagine that in an Arnold Schwarzenegger voice). It was comparable to taking away the small chain ring on my Redline, and riding with only the big chainring on the front and roughly the same setup on the cassette. In other words, my lowest gear on the Fuji was much, much,
much harder than on the Redline. Since I had not ridden it on any of our usual turf, I had nothing to compare it to, and simply did not notice the difference -- but sure felt it after Cross Vegas. Once I realized that I really DID work that hard at the race, I was pretty proud. Once home we rode the rail trail, and I was finally able to compare apples to apples by riding a trail I knew well and knew I could ride -- and discovering truly how much hard the Fuji made me work. That'll make ya strong! Did we change it? You better believe it, sheriff.
