jon myers

A forwarded posting from Erik Tonkin in Belgium:

I thought you all might be interested in this first report. As always, please feel free to forward this to interested others, post elsewhere, or file in the trash bin....

I know that arriving the day before the WC is not ideal, but I also know how to get ready for a big race in a hurry. I did just about everything right on Mon. as far as prep. is concerned, focusing mostly on getting in a strong workout. I rode for 2 hours (taking Wells and Wicks with for much of it) and was disciplined enough to do plenty of hard, uncomfortable efforts, both on road and, of course, off, in the mud along the canals, my home-away-from-home trails. I also stayed up 'til 9pm, an effort and a half. I slept until 9am, with only a short 2hr. sleepless stretch in between. You gotta re-set your clock, ya know. Unfortunatley, I was unable to re-set my--how you say?--constitutional clock, so off I went to the WC quite a few pounds over weight. Well, you can have your cake and shit it, too.

The good news was that my legs felt good and my heart and lungs seemed ready to cooperate. I wasn't feeling super sharp, but things could have been worse. Me and Thrasher started in the back row, along with Page and Absalon. The field was 60 strong, but the back was good enough for me. What was not cool was the crash on the 2nd turn, into which I stuck and then stitched, so to speak. After the fracas, I remembered that a bike doesn't pedal without a chain, so off I got to fix mine. Moving forward once again, I could barely see the back of the field. I chased madly to catch the tail of the group by the first beach section. After 3 laps, I was in front of the guys I should have already passed, moving easily into the top-50 (which is where you have to be to score). In the sand I was good, both riding and running, but elsewhere I wasn't very sharp and certainly lacked some power. Still, I was at the front of my group and getting stronger as the race wore on.

At this point, though, I should say the effort was a losing one. My goal for the day was to place in the top-30. After the trouble at the start, I figured that would be totally unrealistic, so I soldiered on, as always. (In fact, finishing the 30's is tough, so a top-30 goal is pushing it. I'm such a dreamer.) I was emboldened by the fact that WC's are now timed for the leaders to finish between 60 and 70 minutes. I figured I had the time, and like I said, I was feeling stronger--as well as sharper--as the show wore on. My goal now--also as always, at least at these big mo-fo's--was not to get lapped. My previous goal of top-30 was far more inspired, but to not get lapped is no less noble, I suppose, especially considering the short loop and long day. So, on the 8th lap of 12, I finally removed my head from my ass and started winning the races to the puck, as my hockey coaches used to say. Basically, I had been riding at the front but yielding it at critical times,
like just before entering the sand sections. So, I made sure to get there first, and, of course, I dropped everybody exiting the beach. I rode alone for the next lap, sure that I wouldn't get caught but, honestly, also pretty sure that I wouldn't catch anybody else. Basically, it was like a backward pursuit or, perhaps, an off-road miss-and-out. Yup, it tooked like old T was riding for ride, again. Could he survive this thing on the lead lap?

Well, I didn't, but I might have had I not nearly killed myself. My crash was a 'cross racer's nighmare. I had emerged from the sand once again, doing my little individual time-trial, riding at my best for the day. As I approached a short staircase at full-tilt, I started to dismount but my left foot didn't release. Instead, my front tire hit the bottom stair. My head quickly followed, slamming into a stair's edge. I went black for a moment, and my stomach hurt instantly. My vision was bad, like real blurry. My thighs stung and throbbed, and I couldn't feel my right hand.

The crowd can be harsh at these races. They love crashes and aren't afraid to laugh when even the good guys go down. Of course, they're more likely to have fun at the expense of riders more my level. But it was silent. Nobody seemed to think it was funny. No, broken helmets really aren't funny.

Troy was the first to catch me, so I instinctively got up and then on the bike to go after him, nearly taking my wobbly-assed self out in the first couple of corners. I don't sulk on the race course--there's plenty of time for that at home, in bed, or on the ol' interweb, like now. Besides, I'm not good enough to afford myself that luxury. As much as my head hurt, I soon realized my legs were the more serious problem. In the crash I'd smashed the front of my quads against the stair's edge, and it was soon obvious that one of 'em wasn't working so hot. Now, a day after, I have a large, football-shaped contusion on my left thigh, and I even struggle to walk. What am I gonna do 'bout my legs, Jeremy Powers?!

So, I followed Thrash around the course for another lap, and then we got pulled. It was not pretty. Yes, these races are tough, but they reward hard riding and suffering, which is why, I think, I'm often more competitive here than I am at home. I guess I have some good excuses for this one, but I don't want any. That's not why I'm here. I'm here to try my hardest in the toughest races against the best guys. In pursuit of that goal, I plan and expect to be at my best in order to honestly assess my performance. Now that I'm banged up, I can't imagine that I'll again be at my best during the camp, so that really sucks. On the other hand, I don't plan to stop riding, at least not yet.

--ET