Summer Racing in the High Country

With summer in full swing there is nothing better than trips to the mountains to take on the endless trails. But with an 8 month pregnant wife, those trips are few and far between. A few weeks ago we hit Beaver Creek for our 10 year anniversary. We were married at Allie's Cabin on the mountain and hiked up the short trail to have lunch on the deck. It was a great way to spend the day.

For the 4th we drove up to Breckenridge so I could race the Firecracker 50, a 50 mile MTB race on some of the best trails in Breck. Courtney wasn't really supposed to be at that altitude, apparently 10,000 ft. can induce labor, but she took that risk. Breck is one of my favorite towns in all of Co. and I take any opportunity to get back there, even if it means a brutally hard race.

To be racing on a Thursday, on a national holiday is pretty awesome. What's better is that the race starts on Main St. and is the start of the town parade. Each wave of riders has a pace rider for the neutral mile through downtown, and the first wave was seen off with the mayor riding in front. That's what mountain towns are all about.

Starting Lap 2 

As for my race it was hard, fun, tough and a blast all at once. I suffered, I smiled and overall I had a pretty good day. Having not raced an MTB race in a few years, throwing myself into a 50 miler seemed  like as good a place to start as any. The trails for this race are a great mix of twisty singletrack, technical sections and fast descents. Unfortunately I'm better on the uphill than the down, my descending skills are still pretty bad. I think I have a very strong self-preservation instinct and at 36 years old there's not much I can do about that. Thankfully I didn't suffer any mechanicals (after two weekends in a row with flats and a busted chain this was a relief) and I finished in 6th place out of 20 or so, only 10 minutes back.

The post race beer was not going down well, but watermelon and water was. After a few quick bites we had to high tail it back home. Courtney was wearing down (understandably) and we were going to grill out with our neighbors for dinner. A big plate of meat, some fruit and finally a beer that went down well was a nice way to end the day.

I was thinking of racing the Breck 100 this weekend, but that's probably out now. Too many signs point to eminent labor and I'm not missing the birth of my first child for any race. Still, there's a lot on the horizon for me in all facets of life and I'm looking forward to all of it- even if it means I won't sleep.

What will this week bring?

A Belgian Ride to Work

The barren roads of Belgium, or Southern Cal on a cloudy day. 

There are two types of cycling fans, those that love the stage races and particularly the Tour, and those that favor the one day classics. I am classics man, and particularly the double of the Tour of Flanders and Paris-Roubaix. I find the mix of cobbled roads, bad weather, unyielding terrain and crazed fans to be intoxicating. When I need motivation, or when I want to really go hard, I picture myself in the heart of Classics country, pounding away with the greats. Living in southern California, this vision is often difficult to embrace since we have such abundant sun and good weather nearly year round. So when the skies are dark and the temp a bit cooler, I get into what I call a “Belgian” frame of mind and hit the roads. Today was one of those days, and on my 50 mile commute to work, complete with some bad roads and rolling terrain, I raced against five of the greats.

Turning onto the frontage road that hugs up against the foothills to the south, the roads are perfectly conducive to my Belgian ideal. Rolling with no traffic, the gray skies and whispy white clouds hung low in the foothills, giving an imposing and serious look to what is normally a beautiful picture. The flat light giving everything a dulled, tired appearance. In my mind, I was on the rural roads of Belgium, or northern France, where the tough men prove themselves every April.

To make the vision complete, I pictured five other riders. Of course the list started with Eddy Merckx the three time Paris-Roubaix and two time Tour of Flanders winner (along with other Classics and Grand Tours to boot). I also saw Roger De Vlaeminck, a three time winner at P-R and winner of the 1977 Tour of Flanders. From more recent times, I included Johan Museeuw, twice the victor at Flanders and P-R. From that same era was Peter Van Petegem, who won P-R once and Flanders twice. Finally, and still riding as strong as ever, there was Tom Boonen- a four time P-R champion, three time Flanders champion and the only man to win both races in the same season twice.

With myself tagged on, I envisioned the six of us powering along the roads as it wound its way along the hillside. Our group was controlled, no random flyers or unnecessary efforts, but there was no letting off the gas either. We were 90 minutes from the line- still plenty of time to hurt each other.

On some stretches, the open land to the north slightly resembled a Belgian landscape. A single line of barren trees provided a wind break for the farmers. The orange groves that lined the road became crowds of people cheering us on. The orange fruit changed to the famous Flanders flag that dot the landscape during the race. I heard the screams of fans and saw their faces as they poured out their boundless enthusiasm for what we were attempting to do. They understood that we were a group of champions, and that whoever would take the victory would be considered the true King of the Cobbles. While in reality the road is quite smooth, I took every opportunity to ride on the cracked, bumpy sections. This back road sees very little traffic, and I imagined each passing car as a team vehicle coming up to yell instructions to their rider.

No one shifted down over the small rises. We all just powered over them, pretending they weren’t there. None were as steep as the Koppenberg or Oude Kwaremont, but they sting. No one shifts down. Instead we pound out a slow rhythm, forcing our legs to continue to do the work necessary to keep up.

As a group, we were equal, all sharing the work. Except that Merckx seemed to take longer turns at the front- playing the mind games that set him up for the physical devastation he loved to bring. The hum of the drivetrain and wheels created a mechanical melody and mostly drowned out the audible element of our effort.

The bleak sky that normally highlights the green fields to the north and hillside to the south instead cast a serious tone. I was fully immersed in my imaginary race. I saw the orange-brown Faema jersey of Merckx, the pale blue of Boonen and the multi-colored cubes on Museeuw. Van Petegem stood out in his red and blue. But De Vlaeminck was the most colorful, the red stripes and blue upper of his Brooklyn team kit contrasting with the dark skies. As we rode on to the finish our demeanor and attitude became more serious with every passing kilometer.

Off of South Mountain road, we turned to HWY 126. This is a two lane freeway with a massive shoulder. The quite of the back road was replaced with the monsterously loud rumbling of trucks and cars. It became hard to keep visualizing myself racing the greats. At this point we had only 20k to go. Now was a dangerous time. Anyone could make a move. And while it would likely not work this far out, no one was going to let anyone go. So the pace quickened in a subtle and almost imperceptible way. Breathing was now more labored and the strain was creeping in. Behind Museeuw, I looked to see if I could find any weakness in his repaired left knee. Of course there was none.

It was Merckx up front, followed by De Vlaeminck, Van Petegem, Museeuw, Boonen and myself rotating through the pace line like teammates. We were clear from the chase group behind, and one of us would be the winner for sure. But in this group, it’s not enough to win- the goal is to dominate.

Our route was straight and in the wind, so our progress slowed while the effort increased. Soon, we would be turning to the finishing straight, which in reality is where the sprint line is for a weekly group ride. Now we were shifting down for the rises, De Vlaeminck and Merckx reaching to their downtubes while the rest of us pushed levers.

Soon enough we were off the 126 and on the surface roads leading the sprint. With only 5k to go, it was now very serious. First to go was De Vlaeminck. I think he felt the need to prove something to Merckx. But Van Petegem covered his attack and we all followed suit. These are the desperate times for a bike racer. You don’t want to use up your energy too soon, but you can’t let someone just ride away either. If you wait for someone else to cover an attack, they may not want to, or have the legs to respond and any chance you had of winning a sprint can be gone in a flash.

Next to take off was Boonen. Maybe he thought the advantages of a carbon bike and deep section wheels would prove a difference maker. Quickly he got a gap, and we looked to Museeuw to cover. If Museeuw wanted to prove that he was the original Lion of Flanders, it was up to him. He took to the front, his face twisted in agony. But the road ahead kept bending slightly north, and more into the wind. Boonen hadn’t realized it and now his normally fluid pedal stroke was reduced to a mashing of squares. To the regular observer, Museuuw’s facial expression would be one of pain. But bike riders know that expression can be sheer joy when you are crushing a rival.

Behind him, Merckx and myself were tagged on. Van Petegem was behind De Vlaeminck, and when he couldn’t respond to the acceleration Van Petegem was in the wrong place at the wrong time. We had less than a K to go. It was down to three.

Museeuw was now realizing what Boonen had miscalculated and was straining mightily. Merckx was almost casual, leaving him out front to die a painful death. I took the chance to look back and saw Boonen with his head down, defeated and De Vlaeminck and Van Petegem working to catch back up but not gaining an inch. It would be a sprint to line.

As he tired, Museeuw thrashed wildly, trying to get everything out of his body and bike. With sheer confidence, Merckx rose up out of his saddle and began his charge. His leather shoes strained at the straps, his steel bike twisting beneath him. I knew this would come, and was prepared to go. When I saw Merckx reach down to shift one last time, I knew it was coming.

Straight away I was on his wheel. Despite the heaviness of my legs I strained to give it all I could. I was in the right place and on the right wheel, everything was in place. I kicked up on Merckx’s left side, trying to get past before the line. Drawing up with his rear wheel, I was gaining precious inches. When I was up to his side he gave another kick, something I didn’t think he could do.

Of course he could, this was Merckx after all. I had to dig again just to stay even. Now it wasn’t a matter of who was fastest, but who could hold it to the line. My vision was going blurry from the effort but I could see the line coming quickly. I mashed out a few more strokes then threw my bike at the line in desperation.

Rolling past the sprint line I was quickly back in reality. Cars filed into Starbucks and Chevron, each fueling up for the day ahead. I caught my breath as I soft pedaled to a stop light. In one last vision, I saw myself on the podium, receiving some award from the podium girl and hearing the crowd roar. But, as I looked up and to my left, it was Merckx on the top step, hoisting the trophy. It couldn’t have been any other way.

A Wave of Change

It's taken a lot of practice, some bad decisions, a few good poundings and a bit of success, but I think I can now call myself a paddlesurfer. I don't take these things likely, that is, if you have paddled and caught a wave, you're not a paddlesurfer. Just like someone who runs once a month is not a runner. I'm not being a snob, I'm just being honest. I've rock climbed twice in my life, I would not call myself a climber.

But the point is not that you need to earn your title, the point is that I now feel confident in the water. Rather than timidly bobbing around and waiting for a wave to come to me. There is a bit of a Catch 22 to improving. If you don't get any waves, you can't get better. If you go into the line up and don't know what you're doing, you can A) piss people off, B) get hurt or C) Both A and B. I'm a safety first kind of person and don't ever want someone to get hurt due to my inability. Thankfully I had a few good days that weren't crowded and I took advantage of them. But one day in particular changed things for me.

In November, some big waves came to Ventura. Surfline was reporting 8 to 10 ft. which would be about twice as big as anything I'd been in before. On Friday after work, I decided to go check it out, bringing my board with me just in case.

I heard them before I saw them. The power and sound of the waves was inspiring and frightening at the same time. In my mind the battle raged. I could catch my biggest wave yet, or my biggest mistake. My decision was made. I didn't think about it again. I pulled the board off the car and made my way down to the beach.

Just getting out through the white water was a challenge. I got pitched off my board several times. During one toss the board come up towards me and cracked me right on my left shin. In my fear driven rush to punch through the waves I got right back on and paddled for my life. It wasn't until I was beyond the breakers that I saw the blood. Since I was standing I knew there was no real damage, but I hadn't even caught a wave yet and the ocean was making it's mark.

The waves were coming in like massive walls and reaching the pier. If you took off on the shoulder you would get dragged into the pier. Now I'm not a fan of being in the crowd- there's too much hassle, testosterone and frayed nerves for me. But in this case, I had no other option.

Cautiously, I moved north about 100 yards where 30-40 surfers were marking territories and gazing out into the horizon looking for the next bomb. The vibe was like none other I'd felt. It was a mix of testosterone, nerves, fear and awe. My nerves were jumpy just standing there. Occasionally a rogue wave or two, taller and moving faster than the others, would roll through, causing a moment of chaos as some paddled out for cover and other looked to get into position. I had trouble just getting over some of the waves.

Soon though my fear turned to determination. I wasn't going to sit there and watch the waves go by, I needed on one. But I wanted to be safe as well, for myself and others. My SUP is 9 ft, and it's hard to kick out on big waves. If there were someone inside (who would have the right of way) I could potentially be in a bad way. So I was looking not just for a good wave, but one that was clean and clearly mine.

An hour went by. I had a few I wanted to paddle into, but there were other riders on already. In this situation I was practicing extreme caution in my selection process. Any mistake would be a bad one. Then I saw one coming and I was in the best position to take it. This was it.

I said to myself "that's the one," and paddled into position. As the wave came, I took one more look to see if anyone was on my inside. I was clear. It was on.

I love the feeling when the wave first picks you up. You surge forward and upwards getting the first feel for the wave. I put down a few hard paddle strokes and was on it. Dropping down the face, I shot up to a speed I'd never reached before. Instantly I knew I was on a wave that had consequences beyond what I'd faced before. My focus was pinpointed to that exact instant.

It sounds corny and cliche, but I was fully connected to this wave. I could feel the flowing kinetic power under my board. My board was an extension of me, and I was an extension of the wave. In addition to feeling the wave it was making itself loud and clear, it's threatening crashing noise reminding me in immediacy that I was not in control. It made me more focused, and more than a bit scared. My blade was on my right, on the wave side, and I could feel it touching the wave as I screamed diagonally across this raging wall of water. Nearing the bottom of the wave I took a quick glance back at my paddle. I like to angle it up slightly, so it's about 2 feet above my head. When I saw that the lip was another 2 feet over my blade, I said a single word expletive in my mind. Nothing was in my head but a mix of focus, fear and stoke. In that order.

All of this took about 10 seconds. I kept screaming along, just in front of the crashing whitewater that sprayed me. Looking down the line, I saw the beautiful blue-green curl stretching out in front. It's glassy concave form contrasted with the blue sky and green foothills. The wave began to pick up more speed and the lip was starting to outpace me. I couldn't match the speed of the lip and I was getting behind this behemoth of liquid energy. I braced myself to get crushed and go ragdolling into the water.

Despite the power, when the whitewater smashed into me,  I managed to stay upright. Shocked,  I let out a little holler, gave a few quick paddles and found myself back in the pocket. The mix of focus, fear and stoke changed, now it was just focus and stoke.

Seeing that the wave was slowing a bit and losing a bit of size, and feeling like I could do anything now, my mindset switched. I wasn't just surviving this wave, I was actually riding it. I felt like one with this single bit of the ocean, as if it had appeared only for me. I wanted to create something that would last in my mind on this liquid canvas I'd been given. I charged up to the top, planted my paddle and cut back to accelerate down the face again. Now I'm not delusional, and I know my surfing skills are marginal at best when compared to others, but it was the best surfing I'D ever done. I made a few more turns, getting more confident and aggressive with each one. In my mind I was tearing it up. But I'm sure that anyone that saw me from the shore thought the wave was wasted on my skills. But that doesn't matter. This was for me and no one else.

As the wave's energy waned, I finally kicked out- stoked and tired both mentally and physically. Normally, I'm the type that suffer from OMS, or One More Syndrome. But this time there was no doubt, I was going straight in. I felt like that wave was meant for me at that exact time. If I went back out I would probably not get another one like it, or worse, I would fall or do something silly and in my mind that is all I would remember. Plus, the rush of adrenaline I was feeling was like nothing I'd ever experienced.

Most of the sports I do aren't exactly what you would call "thrill" sports. Sure you can go fast on a bike and skis, and I've had some pretty epic rides on both, but this was something completely different. On a wave you are on something that is also moving, that you have to feel, read and react to. It is a medium that shifts constantly and requires 100 percent focus. The adrenaline I felt coursing through me made
want to yell on the beach and give random strangers a high five while slamming a Red Bull and calling everyone 'Bro!" Now I know why surfers react the way they do after a perfect wave. It's a singular point in time that can never be duplicated, but it is forever with you.

The Road to the Trail

Having more fun in Deer Valley. Photo: Ale DiLullo/Cannondale

As much as I love riding trails, I hate driving to them. Sitting in my car, wasting gas, money and time just frustrates me. The paradox that in order to get to the places I love I have to take actions that potentially harm them is one that I can't get away from. Not going to the trails is not an option, and I can't move to where the trails are, so the inner-conflict continues. Every time I feel motivated to ride I think about having to sit in the car, spending 8 to 10 bucks in gas, putting emissions in the air and miles on my car. It's pretty un-motivating. Even last week when I was in Park City, with trails just a two minute walk away, I was still reminded that I took a flight there, and I can only imagine what it took for Cannondale to get all the bikes, gear and journalists out.

Knee pads, a first for me. 

But I can't stay away from the trails. After years riding on the road, I feel like I've come back to my roots. I grew up racing BMX and while most of those skills have left me, the exhilaration hasn't. So I drive. Each trail presents something new for me to learn. I recently did a group ride with friends down some of the loosest, gravelly trails I've been on. Plus, the bottom was some of the rockiest terrain I've attempted to clear. I even put on knee pads. Pushing myself out of my comfort zone (see the text below the title of this blog to read my opinion on comfort zones) was a good experience. It's amazing what having other riders around will allow you to do. Sure, they won't keep you from crashing, but you know if it hits the fan, you have guys there to help. It's the best time to take chances. It wasn't pretty, and I walked some sections I could have ridden, but I progressed and made it through unscathed. I was glad I made the drive.

The Competing Interests of Mileage and Flow

Goals and objectives. We all have them and we need them to improve, but what is the value of repeating the same goal and objective? This thought occurred to me as I was coming down one of the best trails I've ridden in some time, Nail Driver and Deer Crest at the Deer Valley Resort in Park City, Utah. I've been lucky enough to spend the past few days at the Silver Baron Lodge riding bikes and checking out some of the newest cycling gear. Known as Press Camp,  it's three days of morning meetings, afternoon rides and great dinners. Yes, it's hard work, and I appreciate your sympathy. Back to goals and objectives, it occurred to me that for many years I've been chasing roughly the same athletic goals and objectives, and I think there are many that do the same. For me, it was chasing distance and climbing. With a history in long distance triathlon (14 IM's in 5 years) I got into a mindset that the farther I went the better. Even when I stepped away from triathlon, that mentality followed me. How far could I ride, run or paddle, how far back did those trails go, how epic is it?  My goals were still distance oriented, I'd only changed my mode of transport. I'd get back from a mountain or road ride and look at my total miles and elevation like a slave to the metrics. I'd check the surf and if was decent, I'd still convince myself to stay in the harbor to paddle for more miles. I was what I now refer to as Mileage Man. On occasion I would bust out of the rut and have a blast, vowing every time not to get sucked back into my mileage mindset. Each time failed, but now, now I think I've had a breakthrough.

Deer Valley trails and an awesome bike

Here at Deer Valley I was presented with the opportunity to take a chair lift up, ride awesome trails with some of the best bikes, I took it. I took it mostly because my legs were thrashed from my three races in three weekends (all distance oriented). I was doing the unthinkable, descending more than I climbed and in essence not "earning my turns" as they say in the ski world. But I had FUN. Not just some fun, but FUN. I was pushed to ride better, more technically and more aggressively than I have in the past. Having a BMX background (riding from ages 6 to 9), some of it came back. Now by no means was I "killing or shredding it", but I was feeling a sense of flow and rhythm that I'd only fleetingly experienced in the past few years.

Mileage Man, not having what most would call "fun". Photo: C. Johnson

So what I couldn't figure out is why is that though I love that sense of flow and rhythm, in any sport, do I continually default to Mileage Man? For me I think it's two things: familiarity and ease of use. Familiarity is like a rut, you do it on auto pilot. Your brain knows what it's in for and simply moves you in that direction. Ease of use means that it is easier to get out your door on a road bike or run and cover as many miles as you can than it is to load bikes/skis/boards, drive to the trail/resort/beach, hope the conditions are good and have fun. Surfing and skiing are especially condition dependent. I would bet that this year, skiing had a lot less "stoke" to it than last year. But what I'm coming around to is the fact that there is a different payoff to taking on those logistics, and different goals and objectives to be had.

Mileage Man can quantify his activities and create specific goals. Miles and elevation are recordable so you can look back at your GPS device and say, "I paddled this many miles" or "I climbed this many feet of elevation". These are clear metrics to measure against. Mileage Man can impress others with his Strave KOM's (google Strava if you don't know what it is) and weekly training logs. For Flow Man, (trail riding/skiing,surfing/sup'ing, etc) it's more "fun" based. You can't quantify how much fun you had and if you had more fun than the last time you rode that trail. Flow Man can say "that was sick" or "I'm stoked!" and it ends there. He won't pull up a file that measures his stoke to show you how much more stoked he was than the last time he rode that trail. His goal is for that moment only. Now there are some specific goals for Flow Man. Things like nailing a particular part of the trail, landing a jump on skis or cutting a bigger hack on a wave, but again, there are no watches or GPS units to record data. Plus, the specific goal is folded into the overall goal of achieving more flow. That said, I have been in such depleted states that I experience a flow due to sheer exhaustion and delirium. When I was racing a 24 hour ski race two year ago I was so tired that when the sun was coming up and shining through the aspen trees, I thought "this is what Peyote must be like". I've also been lucky to have days when from the start my pedal stroke or run stride was perfect and fluid. So, it's a different type of flow in endurance events, but is more fleeting, and rarely the goal.

Flow Man, having fun, workin' it, workin' it.
Photo: Ale DiLullo/Cannondale

So with each run I let Flow Man come out more. I just rode the bike downhill as fun as I could. Not fast, fun. My only thought was, "how fun can I ride this trail?" I cautiously caught some air when I felt safe, drove into corners that I felt confident in and pushed myself in way that rewarded flow, not necessarily speed, but rhythm and flow. At times I felt super confident and other times I was reminded that the majority of my riding has been on the road.

Milo and his dad feeling the flow on the pump track

Last night I watched a kid was almost three years old whip around a pump track on a strider bike (kids bike with no pedals). His father is a pro freeride mountain biker and built the track in his backyard for training This kid was pushing his bike up and down the jumps and through the turns, all with a big smile on his face. He has already felt FLOW, it is now and will forever be a part of him. It was inspiring to watch this little kid just get out there for fun. He doesn't know what GPS is, how many feet of elevation he gained or what his speed was, but he had the most fun of anyone out there. 

Three Weekends, Three Races

I didn't plan it out to be like this, but the last three weeks has seen me racing either my mountain bike or SUP board. I would rather have had them spaced out, but being that there are so few events to choose from in both sports, I couldn't pass them up.

So it began with an early AM drive up to Big Bear for the US Cup 50 mile MTB race. I wasn't sure how this would go since I hadn't done a whole lot of specific training for it. Still, I felt like I could turn in a decent result.
Early on, as in the first mile, I knew things were not good. My legs felt tired and out of sync, my back hurt and my glute was on fire. After living at sea level for just over a year and racing at 7,000 ft. I was introduced to what altitude really feels like. It hurts by the way. None of this points to a strong race day, and I suffered big time. I'm not used to being reduced to just thinking about finishing, but that's what it came down to. Surprisingly, I found motivation in that and enjoyed the new challenge I had set for myself.

But all the motivation in the world couldn't prevent me from cramping. From knee to inner thigh, both legs were seizing in a way I've never felt. It wasn't enough to keep me from pedaling, and it did subside at times, but added to my misery. While I didn't come around physically, mentally I put out a good effort and finished satisfied. More often than not in this situation I would be disappointed and focus on how bad I raced. However, this time I was able to focus on what I did well and how I had done the best with what I had for the day. The result sheet wasn't what I wanted, but I was still happy. After countless endurance events I'm still learning and improving!

The next weekend was more of an adventure into a sport I am completely new to- SUP racing. I've really come to love SUP'ing through the harbor and surfing, and I wanted to see what racing is like. The event was 5.5 miles (I passed on the 1.5 mile race) in a two triangle loop. Since my board is more of an all-arounder and not a racing board, the guys at C4 Waterman let me borrow their stability/racing board, the Switchblade. I had a few days on it to get used to it, but I needed all my skills for the race. The wind and swell combined to create quite a bit of cross-chop, something I have NO experience in. I spent most of the race just trying to stay upright, something I did for the most part. It felt like I was on a mechanical bull more than an SUP board. If you've ever seen a newborn deer stand up and take it's first steps, that's what I looked like- wobbly, unbalanced, uncoordinated and shaky. Instantly I was at the back of the pack and like last weekend when I focused on my effort rather than placing, I had to re-evaluate why I was out in the water.
Right about that time I saw a fin pop up about 50 yards ahead of me. A dolphin was headed straight towards me. Instantly my thoughts turned to how amazing it was to be in the waters with such a graceful animal. I couldn't help but think of the sharp contrast. Here were 100 humans, the supposed pinnacle of evolution, bobbing around on boards while this animal displayed a grace and form that we will never know. The next swell nearly knocked me off my board, so I focused back on my own task, though I relaxed a bit and smiled more.
With my shoulders ablaze I kept at the best I could, trying to find a rhythm. It never came, but I had fun, especially catching a small wave on the way in. In the end I wasn't last, but close to it, and I didn't really care. Tacos and a beer with Courtney afterwards was better than any podium, so I still won in the end.

The last race had me back at Big Bear for another 50 mile MTB race. This time it was the State Champs so the competition was on. After another early morning drive to Big Bear I sufficiently caffeinated myself with coffee and chocolate covered espresso beans, warmed up and hit the start line ready to roll hard.
Unlike my last attempt I was feeling good from the gun. Not so good that I tried to keep up with any pros, but I was in the lead group as we climbed the fire road. Some sandy singletrack offered tight turns, blind corners, rocks and arm-cutting fauna. I let faster, more skilled riders get by, knowing it's easier to follow someone than to lead. The only problem was that I soon lost my guide and was back to my own fumbling. The singletrack opened up to a fire road, but strewn with rocks and ruts, it was no simple descent. I skittered down, getting passed along the way by some riders I had left behind on the way up. Even when the rocks and ruts gave way to sand I felt I was losing time. Frustration set in as I struggled through the sandy corners. Each corner was a new event, with me taking bad lines and grabbing way too much brake. I don't mind slow technical riding, but I get a bit too freaked out when the speeds get higher. To add to my troubles, I encountered a few Jeep and FJ Cruisers coming up the road. Most were on their side of the road, but a few were dangerously to their left. Sketchy.
Finally we were back climbing up, and I was back in my zone. The pedals were turning well and then we hit more singletrack.
This section was fun, if being scared you might fall off a cliff is fun. The trail cut into the mountain so on your left was the side of the mountain and on the right was nothing. Take a bad line, bars clip the side, get bounced off line and you were headed for a steep drop. To add to this there were more than a few tight left turns that threatened to topple me over the side. There were more than a few occasions where I wanted to walk, but momentum and guys right behind me forced me to keep rolling. There was one occasion where I had to get off. When I see CAUTION signs I know that is meant for me. Walking the trail I had to pick my bike up and hold it over the abyss to my right. It wasn't all terrifying though, there were several swoopy sections on flat terrain as well. I let two riders go by me, both much faster descenders and one was the woman who would go on to win. She was a true daredevil and a great rider to follow.
The single track gave way to a paved road before the final aid station. I refueled for what I knew was to be the hardest part of the course, the climb up Radford Rd. It was only a fire road, but nearly five and half miles of eight to ten percent grade with no let up, no shade and nowhere to hide meant we would all suffer. This was the hardest five miles I've ever ridden. From the start I was in the granny gear; if I went slower I would literally stop and fall over. I kept looking at my legs and visualizing them turning over, a kind of instant mental messaging. While I still felt relatively OK,(no cramps or major bonks) it was the sheer unyielding grade that ground us down. I saw riders ahead of me walking. Part of me took that as a sign to let myself walk, the other said "no way". I willed myself from turn to turn, dangling each as a carrot to get to. Ultimately I made it up without having to walk, something I will always be proud of.
At the top of Radford was one last aid station so I topped off with water and set out for the final miles. At this point I thought we had about seven or eight miles to go. I took off down the fire road, relishing the descent. I passed a bystander who yelled the phrase I never believe when I hear, "It's all downhill from here!" I've heard that before and always refuse to believe it. We turned down some singletrack that was part of the previous race and that's when it hit me. Cramps. As in both legs, quads and hamstrings. Pedaling was OK, but because the trail was steep, dusty and narrow pedaling wasn't exactly easy. When I stood on the pedals both legs would seize and when I went to pedal again they protested mightily. I continued this awkward chain down the trail, switching between the difficulty of pedaling through technical sections and the pain of having my legs cramp. I soon realized that I only had a mile or so to go. Looking at my GPS watch it read 42 miles. I kept bombing down and crossed the line with it reading 43 miles. Initially I thought I had missed a section or cut the course accidentally, but the riders that were behind me on Radford also trickled in. It turns out the course was short "a few" miles and was measured at 44 miles. How can you cut 6 miles from the course and call it good?
But I wasn't in any mood to complain, I was spent.
I ended up placing 2nd in the 30-39 Cat 1 category and 2nd overall for the amateurs, a result that surprised me and redeemed my poor showing weeks earlier. I was too spent to enjoy the post-race tacos and instead had 3 Cokes and a fruit smoothie.

Thankfully there are no races on the schedule for a few weeks and I won't be roped into anything. The legs are shot, but the mind is more so. Each effort takes a serious ability to simply suffer, and to do that requires more brain power than physical power in most cases. I'm in need of a mental recharge so it's R&R for me.

Surfing Safari

I think I'm finally getting the hang of this SUP surfing thing. Having exactly zero experience in watersports, I grew up in Iowa and lived in Colorado for 10 years, I'm learning quickly about swells, wind, tide and break direction. The ocean is much more complex than what you see on the surface. I've been spending time online looking at surf reports in an effort to learn more. It's not just about finding the best waves, it's about my safety as well. A few weeks back I got caught in windstorm on the water and barely made it back to shore, the experience was one of the scariest I've had in a long time. Out on the water there are few options, it's not like hiking, running or cycling where you can stop and call for help. Of course I knew that before hand, but when it's no longer a theoretical situation the point is driven home with a raised heart rate and awareness.

Even in "safe" conditions, the water can be dangerous. I've been caught in the whitewater, been tossed over the falls and had my fin take a gash of flesh from my shin. Getting pummeled and turned every which way is scary, especially with a pointy 11' board with three fins attached to your leg. It's also tiring as all hell. After a wipeout it's not easy to corral my 11' 1" board, get it pointed back out and get paddling out again. Too many times I'm caught in the crush zone, with waves pounding me backward.

Still, the thrill of catching waves is addictive. I am now able to pretty much catch waves at will, though I am VERY selective and have no ego pushing me to catch the biggest wave I can. Plus I've only ridden rights, I'm not ready to try going heel side just yet. My next move is to try and actually make some turns. As you can imagine, at 11' 1" my board isn't exactly snappy. I typically make one long, arcing turn and call it good.

Even with my rudimentary style, surfing is a rush I've not had elsewhere. I can still remember catching my first wave and realized just what surfers mean when they use the term "stoke", and believe me it's different than skiing stoke or mountain biking stoke. It's similar to skiing a great line, but the fluidity and fleeting nature of the wave make it more immediate. Plus, for someone like me who has to struggle to get the wave to begin with, it is imperative to make every wave count.