Lately I feel like my “mentors” are fucking with me. All of them. They’re in my head. I’m sure there’s a pretty clear lesson they’re trying to teach me, but so far I don’t get it.
You ever just go to a race knowing it isn’t going to go well? That was Saturday for me. I had shit to do around the house, I had to go to my bastard teammate’s house to get the new team wheels he thought would be better used at his house instead of on my bike during my race. Typical O’Keefe. Grumpy, old fucker is so jaded he tries to ruin everyone else’s day whenever he can.
Example:
Me: Dylan finished 12th today!
Him: Sweet, so he didn’t get any UCI points? Nice.
So after wrestling a cup of coffee out of him, playing with the baby that probably isn’t even his, and looking at his stupid addition he’s building for his in-laws, I finally removed his tentacles from my ball-bag and made my getaway.
My 10:30 departure turned into an 11:00 departure, which then turned into an 11:17 departure because my buddy was stuck in Topsfield Fair traffic. Dirty, fucking scumbag Carnies ripping off little kids. Ick. You ever see that movie where Ellen Page’s Carney parents leave her with Catherine Keener, who locks her in the basement and tortures her? It’s a true story. Check it out. Or don’t. Who cares. Up yours.
But I bet they have donkeys in the petting zoo, so I will probably go one night.
Fast forward to race time and I had actually had a pretty good hour leading to the race. I did discover one problem with my front derailleur on the bike I planned on riding, so I went to the backup bike, Ethel, who has been sitting on the bench since her tumble at the Green Mountain Weekend. As far as I knew, the setup was EXACTLY THE SAME as it was on Fred. My boy.
The quickest explanation of my problem was best summed up by Josh “Hole Shot” Anthony’s roll of his eyes when he saw I was running a 39/44 front ring setup. Apparently a 38 inner will allow for proper shifting. Good to know, since I spent two, back breaking hours trying to dial in my front derailleurs on Wednesday night.
Whatever, Josh. Whatever.
As far as the course for Saturday was concerned, I loved it. Except for what I can assume 99.9% of the people at the race probably thought was 100% retarded. A short, paved downhill start into a right hand turn into lose dirt and ruts. I looked at that, then I considered my fifth row starting position and I knew I was fucked. I’m not sure what the idea was behind the start choice, but in my limited cyclocross experience I am confident in my belief that whoever decided that was a good call might not be very good at making smart decisions.
I missed my call up.
But, being the roadie dickhead that I am, I asked Cory Masson to relinquish his death grip on my starting spot and forced an entire row to shuffle for my wide ass. I was less concerned about the actual start position and more concerned with making sure I got on camera.
To no one’s surprise, there was a crash before the turn onto the dirt and then there were about 500 mini crashes in the dirt. It was nice watching the leaders two turns ahead of us while we walked, ran, and dragged our bikes through the shit pile that is the middle of a 125 person field that was sent downhill into a tight, rutted, dirt chute.
Photo - Rob Bauer/Todd Prekaski
Oddly enough, when the two categories who were the only people capable of handling a start like that raced - the Elite Men and Women - they went down a longer, safer stretch of pavement onto a wider, cleaner turn. It was still a retarded downhill start, so even the Elite Men crashed.
Waaaaahhhhhh. I feel like I make fun of myself for crying about shit in almost every post. I’m so negative some times. I should work on that. You know what might help with that, actually? Winning.
I need to rewind a little bit and recount a short conversation I had with Stu Thorne before the race. We just got some tubulars set up, two pairs of Fangos and two pairs of Rhinos. I had chosen the Fangos and I wanted some tire pressure advice.
“What tire pressure should I run? It’s pretty fucking hard and bumpy out there.”
“What do you weigh again, fat ass?”
“170? 175?”
“Jesus.”
“I’m sorry.”
“35 pounds.”
“You fucking kidding me?”
“Well, I haven’t ridden the course, but the 140 pound guys on our team will probably be riding 32 psi. If you want to keep buying tires, run whatever you want.”
“So I should do 32 front and 34 rear?”
“I’m busy.”
I did what he said, and I think this was a setup. That pressure rode like a skateboard on gravel and halfway through the 3,000 turn, 10 mile course that I barely remember, my road teammate, Ciaran Mangan, chose a line that I didn’t plan on and I overlapped wheels. I over-compensated and I ate shit like I seem to like doing. Straight up and over. I need to back off people in the corners, I’m learning, because there is clearly no definitive line. I keep expecting everyone to go the same way I’m going to go and this isn’t working too well for me.
Adding insult to injury, this bike wasn’t set up the same. Apparently someone had decided to point the tip of Ethel’s saddle straight down at the ground. By straight down at the ground, I mean one notch on the seat bracket level thingy there. And by someone, I mean probably me, but I can’t be sure. I adapt to adverse bike position well, so this only completely wrecked me mentally, two minutes into the race.
I remounted and plowed my way around the course another few times, making up some decent spots, I thought, until at almost exactly minute 30 my back seized up. Again. Like cock, I mean, clockwork. I can’t really describe the pain very well, except to say that it hurts like a bastard and it makes me feel like I’m pushing on two Jell-O sticks for legs. I carried my sorry ass around for another 15 minutes, trying desperately to hold onto my top-25 position.
Smells like beer…photo - Rob Bauer/Todd Prekaski
On the second-to-last lap, I hit one of the ruts in the start section so hard that it rolled my bars forward and jammed my stem to the left. Getting back to what I mentioned about my mentors fucking with me, I decided that if I were to take a bike for something as trivial as this, while riding in the top-25, it would surely warrant mockery and poorly-intentioned comments, so I rode my bike around like that on my rock hard tires, with my rock hard back muscles, and my rock hard…never mind.
I would later learn during the Elite Men’s race that pitting for such a thing is acceptable, as Tim Johnson chose to do so after doing the same thing on the same section of the course. Tim and I, apparently, ride very similarly. We do tend to share a lot of information, but I forgot to tell him about that portion of the course when I was mentally preparing him for his race.
I was so desperate to salvage my finish that I even almost crashed a Cycle-Loft rider who I think is named Oscar. Coming up a tight section to the second-to-last corner, I tried to get inside him. He held his ground and we bumped bars and I nearly rode him into the tape. I heard him ask, “What are you doing?”
I think Oscar’s on my right…photo - Rob Bauer/Todd Prekaski
Although I said nothing, I thought to myself, “Every position counts! Fucking Crossresults.com counts everything!”
Well, it ended up that that fight earned me 22nd place. During cool down, I saw Oscar riding toward me and I shamefully dropped my head in hopes that he might not see me. I’m pretty sure my Banana Shoes gave me away though and he changed direction to come speak with me.
“You really shouldn’t do that, man.”
I had no response, because he was right. But at the same time, 23rd place sucks a shitload more than 22nd! Right? Right?
Post-race depression ensued and I wondered, aloud, to a lot of people, “What’s wrong with my back? It is going to get better? I can’t even pedal! Waaaaahhhhhhh! How do I fix it? Do you have back pain? How’s your bike set up? What’s your stem height? Waaaaahhhhhh. I should stretch.”
“Wah.”
Since I know so much about what I’m doing, I decided to raise my stem one spacer, move my saddle back a few millimeters, tilted my saddle nose up a scooch, and rolled my hoods up a touch. Yup, that would do it for tomorrow. That and 800 mg of ibuprofen before bed and before the race.
Why am I so long-winded? Day 2 tomorrow.
1 year ago - read more...
