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.