Back in the saddle

When I left Carpentersville I was glad that I was getting a break from cycling. All year long I had been planning a trip to Montana elk hunting with my Dad, Uncle and Brother, and knew I was going to miss part of the season. It was one of the reasons why I moved up to Cat 3 instead of vying for the title Sandbagger of the Year in the 4As. I knew that missing three or four races in the middle of the season would not be conducive to a series championship, so I decided to take the leap and "Cat-up" as they say. I was able to squeeze the QuBe (my mountain bike) into the very top few inches of space in the back of the Suburban we took out west, but I was not able to ride it very much. My compatriots were unwilling to view the bike as an asset and an additional vehicle, and I didn't want to "ruin" the hunting trip by turning it into a bicycling trip. So we rode around in the truck and hiked a lot, but I only got in three short rides in two weeks, and missed three races.

My first cross practice back, a Sprockets Tuesday morning, was bad. It was really really bad. I just felt slow, and like my body was covered with a stiff tar. Guys I could ride with, even lead for a while were blowing past me. Any feeling of confidence that I had in my ability was stripped away by taking three weeks off. The rest of the season was going to be rough. Wednesday night in Humboldt Park went slightly better, and by the end of the week I was feeling comfortable the saddle again. I had registered for both races at Indian Lakes, and was looking forward to going and racing.

Instead a confluence of events kept me home. My transportation and lodging to the race fell through at the last minute, so I had no way to get there. That was combined with big project at work that blew up on Friday and was due on Monday. I ended up working 10 hrs on Saturday, and sending off the client deliverable at about 12:33AM. Even if I had a way to get out to Indian Lakes in the morning, I was completely spent. I ended up sleeping until 10AM and then looking the results up online. My "mid-season break" turned into missing half the season.

But I was looking at the wall in my house where I keep my bikes, and where I have started decorating with my race numbers. I had already raced in 14 races this year ranging from 39 minutes to 4 hrs and 8 minutes. Last season I raced a total of 13 thirty minute cross races. This season the opportunities for racing are even better late in the season than they were last year. If I feel up to it I can race in at least 5 more races after the end of the ChiCrossCup season. I am undecided on winter racing as of yet, but I would like to test myself against the Barry Roubaix again this year. Maybe have a little bit better experience by going into it a little bit better prepared than last year. We will see how that works out.

The following weekend was also a double race weekend, but only one was a CCC race. I thought about doing both races, but again transportation and work were issues. In theory I could have rented a car, but it would have had to have been picked up by 6:30pm on Friday (Rental place doesn't open until 9AM on Sat leaving me zero time to get to the suburbs), and I had a "Summer Outing" for work that turned into a happy hour. I even had a friend offer me a solution for transportation, but I didn't get the message (aforementioned happy hour) until it was too late to work out. Like the Rental car place the Metra train in the morning was running just a bit too late, and I did not get home until 1AM anyway, and had no time to prep for a race. So no double race weekend for me.

Instead on Sunday morning Sean and I rode to the exurbs with Chernoh in his friend's car. One bike went in the trunk, and two went on the rack. We had a good time chatting on the way out, and the only snag was that I had forgotten my wallet in my other backpack, and had no money. Being the good friend that he is Chernoh floated me a loan until we got back, and I was able to race.

We arrived at the course, unloaded and headed to the tent. For me it was the first "chilly" cross race so I had a extra lot of clothes. It was also the first race of the season without my trusty Mission Workshop oversized backpack so I was left holding the bag, a black duffle bag I used last season.

We made it to the Sprockets tent which was well placed on the course, and incredibly warm. It made us the center of attention even though we were not on the most spectator friendly part of the course. I had not pre-registered for the race, so my immediate concern was getting a number, getting everything set-down, and getting on the course for a pre-ride before the Master's 30+ race.

The time in the morning before a race always goes so fast. I did something a bit different after the 30+ race and hit two laps around the course. I don't think I made it all the way to the end of the second one, having been pulled off the course to make way for the swarm of women-who-are-faster-than-me, but it was good to get some extra riding in given how many weeks it had been since I actually raced.

I went back to the tent to change from my warm-up clothes into my race clothes, and while I was standing there in my base layers I heard my name being spoken outside. I turned towards the tent flap and in pops a familiar face. My mom had made the trip down from Wisconsin to see my race. So I finished getting dressed, then went outside and hung out with my Mom until it was go time.

We headed to staging, where I was pleasantly surprised with a call-up into the third row. I was expecting to start at the back of the pack with Chernoh and Sean as a late registrant, but my early season points moved me up into the third row. (It also helped that the field was small, only 48 finishers that day). The whistle blew and we were off. It was a little bit sketchy because the starting shoot led into a 90 degree turn to the right, up a hill, then a 90 deg turn back to the left, and up a longer hill. It was repeatedly cursed as the worse part of the course because it wasn't a steep hill, but it was long enough that a single match would not get anyone to the top. I was on the inside edge of the turn which made it a little hairy getting around the first tree, but going up to the top it opened up a spot on the outside to move up with the pack. After the hill started the long namesake section, the double track adventure, which was a fairly smooth long downhill. We were cruising down that section at a break neck pace of 20+ miles per hour, all of us still trying to hold onto the lead pack, and the lead pack trying to blow up the rest of the field.

The double track came to an end as it curved into some literal single track, weaving through the woods, then opening up on double track again with two rail-road tie obstacles. They were oddly spaced to bunny hop both of them, but the were rideable (for most). I cleared them and maintained my spot. As we were coming out of the woods back into the camp we opened up onto some pavement and wove around the buildings. I was passed on the downhill, but was able to reclaim some spots on the uphill. As we looped around the buildings we hit the most dangerous turn. It was a steep downhill, off camber 180 degree turn, into a railroad tie. The railroad tie was buried into the ground on the proximal end, and was all the way out of the ground on the distal end. So if you took an "ideal line" around that corner (wide, narrow, wide) you would end up running into that railroad tie with about 10 inches of it exposed.

I remember that turn because I was trying to go wide narrow, narrow, and Sasha from Tati came on my inside and cut me off, I had to brake hard but let him go by on my left side, then cut across his line so he was on my right. That put me in position to hit the railroad tie where it was only 2in out of the ground, and he hit it where it was about 5 inches. I saw him come to a complete stop, and start to fall to his right. I don't know if he was able to unclip and catch himself, as I continued onward, with a small feeling of satisfaction. That was my personal moment of victory.

Unfortunately the tide of battle soon turned. We looped down around toward the lake, then had to run up a steep-steep stair run. I did not sprint up, knowing that I did not have too many matches left in me, instead choosing a more plodding pace, and still ended up almost unable to breathe at the top. Very shortly afterwards, all of these people passed me.

And then I died a slow and painful death. I continued to lose spots and fall backwards in the pack, and could not find any second wind. The hill climb, the straight aways, everything felt like thick mud, except the sand which just felt like sand. I blew up so severely that even my dear mother, who knows nothing about cycling, and sympathy in her voice when she encouraged me to "keep going". Near the end of the second to last lap there was about a 200-300 meter gap between myself and a pack of three riders who were in front of me. I started to feel like I might have a second wind coming up, like I might be able to make a move on them and try to close that gap on the final lap, and I was mercifully denied that opportunity by the officials who made me the first person to get pulled off the course. It was the first time that I was not allowed to finish the same number of laps as the leaders, but I was okay with that. I really don't think I had it in me to catch the guys in front of me, and there was someone coming up behind. I'll take my 38th place out of 48 and go home feeling like I knocked some of the rust off, and get ready to go again in two weeks.

It wasn't a terrible finish given the amount of time that I had taken off, and the severity of my crash. It also wasn't a terrible crash relative to my friend Sean who, for the second year in a row at this same race, crashed HARD going over the railroad ties. He landed on his head, and actually cracked his helmet. He didn't know it at the time and finished the race much dazed.

We packed up and headed back to the city during the 1-2-3s race. We like to support the 4s racers (and I usually like to take pictures), but we all had commitments that evening. We exchanged race stories, and talked about the next big adventure. Somewhere in our future is a killer gravel road race.