My pre-race is hardly worth pre-dumbling. The day before day one of Winter Shart Tarck, the vast majority of the trails in the area were closed thanks to yet another round of shite weather going into the weekend. I couldn't fathom another Sad Dad™ around town, so I grabbed the Vertigo Meatplow V.7 and headed... down to the Shart Tarck course. Yeth, to ride a bunch of laps at a place where starting the very next day, I'd be spending every weekend... riding laps... for five weekends in a row. It might be muddy, but I'd get to see the new course (there was a slight change to the first half mile or so), and I'd get the opportunity to truly shakedown a bike that hadn't seen much action in awhile. Last week's attempt at a trail ride was cut short when Dr Mike and I decided that just because a trail is open doesn't mean it should be and opted for greenways and golden beers instead.
I rode fifteen miles, which was far enough for me to have lost count as to how many laps I did. It also revealed a rear brake that needed a cup bleed/de-bubbling and a few new lines on the trail that have popped up since last year. Oh... and the new course added a considerable amount of paved descending... which meant as soon as my heart rate and meat sticks get wound out, I'll be at quite a disadvantage to anyone who weighs more than me (almost everyone).
When I got home, I caved into the temptation of watching all the football and drinking all the beer with a frand of The Pie. I don't usually have someone willing too watch mind-numbing amounts of sportsball with, but frand + beer + playoff games?
Get to the race on Sunday, warm up doing the usual laps in the parking lot... and marvel at how many single speeders are in attendance. We were the largest adult class of the day (tell me single speed is ded). Line up to the far right at the front because I want to throw my jacket on the bleachers and not in the mud which is the only option on the left hand side if you don't have a loved one in attendance. I joke that my plan is to go off the front and chop off the field in the hundred yards leading into the sweeping 90° turn.
Which I end up doing... hitting my highest heart rate of the day of 192 bpm in fewer than twenty seconds and accomplishing nothing more than staying out of the potential fray of banging bars with my fellow ding-a-lings.
Directly after that effort, the course starts its close to half mile gradual paved descent down a 1%-6% grade... and I get out-coasted to an almost mid-pack position going into the first bit of moist clay. All I know is that so many people are in front of me, I have no idea what position I'm in... I lost count at more than ten riders. Poop.
My "plan" is to not kill myself in the woods, but make the most of being skinny and attack all the climbs to move forward in the field. I manage to claw back a few places here and there... while losing some of them back every time we got to the long paved downhill. I clocked it to something close to a ten second loss I'd have to fight to get back every time we went down that gawdawful thing.
Three laps down and two to go. The front three of the 50+ class which started a minute behind us (led by none other than Mike King) caught and passed me on the... you guessed it, gawdamm pavement. Once we entered the trail, they kept their pace low, obviously playing a game of cat and mouse, their gap back to fourth was further than I could see without the aid of a telescope. They couldn't have been going too hard because I managed to stay on their wheels going into the final lap.
And that's where things went (continued to go?) sideways.
I had one more single speeder in my sights, a usual local single speed nemesis, Charles. I was going to put in one more big effort on the second-to-the-last gravel climb. Charles had the lead group of three 50+ riders on his wheel going up the double track, so I rang my bell harder than the hunchback ever could and went up the right hand side... passing one... two... thr...
Mike King shifts to the right, I'm guessing not realizing I was there (I reckon bells are a single speed thing)... I hear someone yell ("fuck" perhaps?) and my smooth line up the right hand side of the double track becomes the soft, muddy grass on the shoulder...
Oof.
My effort went through the roof whilst my speed decreased dramatically. I got around Charles before we hit the top, but I paid a sizeable price. Charles easily came around me on the false flat gravel and put an ouchy gap on me while I tried to recover from my vain attempt to make great bike race.
Dammit.
Look over my shoulder... and Daniel and John's battle to be first Dick-beaten is far enough behind that I can relax and lick my wounds the rest of the way home.
Which...
I got so lost in the fray of losing places on that first descent, and then all the passing and getting passed back... I never realized I was in sixth place. Dammit. I shoulda coulda raced smarter. Mebbe I shoulda asked Chris if I might come around on the third lap when I thought mebbe he looked tired as opposed to waiting for the fourth lap when he announced "I'm pooped" and pulled to the side. Instead of ringing my bell, perhaps a loud and racer boi appropriate "ON YOUR RIGHT!" mighta found me not in the weeds but cleanly passing and establishing a gap while saving some gas for a response.
Thus begins five wonderful weeks of hand-wringing and second guessing that always keeps my mind occupied in the winter... which I guess is a "good activity."
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