Yeth, in a thirty-something mile race, I'd allowed myself to be all-consumed with a thirty foot section of trail.
Wake up. Start my coffee...
The stove doesn't work.
Grab my pot, head over to the staff cabin, proclaim prima nocta (or whatever) on their stove and boil my water.
Coffee, shitty Entenmann's cakes, morning constitutional, get kitted up. My heart rate monitor isn't working. I just replaced the battery three months ago. I stressfully start figuring out the steps necessary to take the one out of the wheel sensor of my now worthless other bike... and it decides to start working again for no real reason at all.
Warm up, line up... about three rows from the front. I know my place.
The start is the usual chaos of endurance mountain bike cycle sport racing, and I chase down a fat tire single speed and watch Gabor get away ahead of me on his super squishy single speed. Into the woods and on the section I helped mark last night, and we don't seem to be getting lost... so I can stop holding my breath on that.
Oof. I don't feel like I'm putting in an extreme effort, but I'm seeing high 180s for my heart rate. Covid, you are indeed a cruel mistress. I try to ease up on the gas and here comes a hard charging Chris and Scott, known knowns in the single speed class. They go by, and now the good news is that I'm solidly off the podium and can go about the business of just worrying about finishing... and what I'm going to do when I get to the Heckle Zone.
Because that's what matters, right?
From the fun Gateway Trails and back on the slog up and down Jarrett Creek Road, my Wahoo data acquisition device is reading low... which makes me doubt all the high readings earlier. The push up the back of Star Gap was a punch in the ding dong, which ended with getting a hornet stinger in my chest about forty seconds from the top. Things commence to go to shit.
In my hurry to leave the angry insect world behind, I yell ahead to Chris W. to "GO GO GO" so we could evacuate the danger zone in the most hurried of fashions. He let me dip into the descent first, but then my earbud fell out and was dangling precariously, so I paused, let him by, and tossed the cord into my mouth. I caught a rider on the descent, but my anger-pain groans were misinterpreted as impatience.
"Umm... do you need by?"
*spits out cord*
"Sorry. I'm only grunting because I got stung... but sure, I'd like by when it's safe."
Now I find myself hurtling down the front side of Star Gap with the Heckle Zone fast approaching. I knew where I was going to line up to hit the rocks and roots that I was familiar with, but as I made the left turn into the approach and rolled out on to the rocks I know so well...
Hecklers? Sure. Two... or is it three racers running down in front of me taking all sorts of lines? Is that an upside down bike down there? I have no idea what hell I'm about to descend into, so I hit the brakes and dismount. No redemption today.
A heckler yells out as I go past, "A girl just rode it!"
I do not know what I said back, but in my mind as I rolled away, I thought that his statement says more about him and his misogyny than me and my skill level.
I also note that the upside down bike belongs to Gabor, and it doesn't look like he ended up that way by accident or incident. It looked like he was tending to a mechanical issue of some sort.
All that takes place in a span of less than eight seconds.
Over to the aid station and on to the climb back up the gravel, I'm kicking myself for not just sending it into the Heckle Zone instead of diving into a brain scramble salad of disorientated thoughts. Mebbe I wouldn't have hit anybody? Who knows?
The climb up to the Bernard Trail descent came and went, as did the one to the Kitsuma Trail. I've been down Kitsuma more times than I'd ever be able to recall, and it's where I know I can get my potatoes mashed. I feel pretty good about myself, other than the fact that my neck is killing me from looking over my shoulder for Gabor.
At least the last trail started with some dick-punching switchbacks, so I could swap over to walk mode, and if not use different muscle groups, at least use the same ones but in a different way. Up and down Copper Ridge and finally dump back on to the main drive back to Camp Grier with two more solid dick punches ending right at the finish line. I realize I overused the dick-punch thing, but it's no understatement that my genitals went a few rounds with a professional pugilist.
I finished a Pisgah Productions race in a manner in which I never have before. Instead of immediately grabbing a beer, I went straight for water... a Coke... a burger... some tots... and sat down.
"We're all here if you wanna grab Eric and do our podium," Chris yells across the parking lot.
"I literally don't want to do anything right now."
Eventually, I crammed the food into my face, cleaned up, and rejoined my frands for our big moment.
Third place, and for what it's worth, that course really kicked my ass.
BTW: Gabor rode his soft flat four miles back to camp, fixed his shit, and them rode four miles to get back on course. That's why I hurt my neck constantly looking back for him, because if I know one thing about Gabor, he ain't no quitter.
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