Candi Murray/Oregon Bicycle Racing Assn

Stolen from the Velo News Page



A reader's essay: Getting the runs...

... or 'How I survived my first cyclo-cross race, almost maintained my

dignity and still got beat by a twelve-year-old'





By Greg Taylor





This report filed September 23, 2002





Let's get this straight from the get-go: I don't like to run.



Running is painful, boring and slow. Okay, maybe the way that I do it is

painful, boring, and slow, but even if you were to excuse the cruel tricks

that Mother Nature played when she shaped this particular squatty little

Irishman, the allure of running still eludes me.



I guess that it all comes down to the basic question of whether, given the

choice between strapping on running shoes and pounding out the miles or

swiftly covering that same distance astride a bicycle, a rational person

would actually choose to go running. To me, running is the masochist's

choice, and rather than presume that most runners are given to wearing

studded leather lingerie under their shorts and jogbras, I'm willing to take

the more charitable view that they are simply poor benighted souls who are

reduced to traveling afoot because they aren't coordinated enough to ride a

bike.



I realize that this attitude probably consigns me to a Hell that is

populated exclusively by weekend joggers, but there you have it. So it

surprised me as much as anyone that I signed up to do a cyclo-cross race a

while back. Cyclo-cross races, as we all know, can involve a fair amount of

running.



This development provoked one of those little discussions that you have with

yourself when you hold up your hand to do something that one side of your

brain thinks is a wee bit irrational:



"Dude, what are you doing? A 'cross race!? You hate to run. Don't you know

that 'cross races involve running?"



"Yup. Running, jumping over shit, falling down and getting muddy. Oh, and it

will be very cold out. Sounds lovely, doesn't it?"



"But Dude, there is a reason that you hate to run. You're big and slow, and

you run like a girl."



"Don't forget old, too. I'm over 40. There's a good chance that I'll be the

oldest novice out there. "



"Man, this will be ugly. Maybe you can get a Senior Citizen discount on the

entry fee. How's your fitness? These 'cross races are supposed to be

frickin' painful."



"Ahhh...don't worry about that. The race is only 45 minutes long. I can do

just about anything for 45 minutes."



I would later pay dearly for that last bit of hubris.



Anyway, my irrational and overconfident side eventually prevailed and I was

committed to do the race. Actually, "committed"is a polite way of saying

that, having shot my mouth off about the race to certain riding buddies and

family members, there was no longer any way to gracefully bow out if I

changed my mind.



So with the decision made and money sent off to the organizers, it was time

to get down to the business of preparing for my first cyclo-cross outing. I

was immediately presented with several teeny-tiny impediments to what I was

convinced would be yet another glorious episode in my admittedly limited

racing career.



First, I had never actually seen a 'cross race before, let alone raced in

one, so it was left up to my imagination on what to expect or how to

prepare. I knew that it involved getting off of the bike and jumping the odd

barrier or two or traversing some sketchy terrain on skinny tires, but

beyond that I was clueless. The only answer that I could come up with here

was to occasionally hop off of my bike on the fly and then try and hop back

on. A few top-tube /gonad collisions later, I got this down pretty smooth.



Second, I didn't have a 'cross bike. What I did have, however, was my trusty

commuter rig, an inexpensive Bianchi touring bike with canti-brakes and a

triple chainring. It would do in a pinch. Stripped down and wearing a set of

35c knobby tires pulled off of an old hybrid bike, it looked pretty racy. I

was in business.



Oh, and then there was the running part. I hate running, so I skipped that

bit. I figured that, hey, it was a bike race and there couldn't be that much

running involved, could there? And if there was I could just gut it out

because, as we all know, I can do just about anything for 45 minutes. Even

running through the mud with a 25 pound bike on my shoulder.



Race day arrived cold and threatening snow. Bundled in my thickest windproof

tights and multiple jerseys, I checked in with the race control, and got my

one-day license and race number with little hassle. I was way early, so I

had plenty of time to check out the course and the competition. What I saw

of both quickly set off warning bells for what was about to go down.



The course was an eye-opener. The race was being held in a local regional

park, and the organizers had managed to put together a loop that included

virtually every surface that you could think of: road, gravel, grass,

singletrack. Oh, and they managed to find a place for virtually every hill

in the park, including one steep grassy incline to the top of an earthen dam

that holds back a small lake. Correct that: it was holding back a small,

frozen lake because, as I mentioned, it was COLD. The cold temperature also

meant that the ground itself was frozen solid.



And then there were the barriers. Can't have a 'cross race without barriers.

Several sets of six to eight hurdles broke up the runs in the main viewing

area, meaning that any humiliation suffered while traversing these sets of

jumps would be extremely public.



There were, of course, other groupings of barriers placed over the course in

rather inconvenient places. Most notable among these little inconveniences

was a particularly nasty grouping of barriers placed on a steep uphill

section, about 30 yards long. I could just visualize myself rolling up to

this section mid-race, smoothly dismounting and gracefully leaping over the

barriers like a gazelle. Yup, a slow, spastic, tired gazelle carrying a

bicycle.



Taking it all in, it began to slowly dawn on me that the next 45 minutes or

so of my life would not be a dignified interlude. I rode around the course

slowly flailing over each section. I tried to keep my spirits up by

repeating over and over that little bit of over-confidence that got me here

in the first place: "Oh hell, this isn't too bad. I can do just about

anything for 45 minutes." Well, we would definately see about that...



My confidence levels were somethat restored to their prior over-inflated

levels as I began to check out the competition. There were, of course, big

groups of honch racers decked out in full team regalia, warming up for the

main event. I ignored them. I wouldn't be racing against those guys. No, I

was entered in the "Citizens" race, i.e., the light comedy portion of the

show that precedes the main attraction. I spent my time sizing up the other

average Joes with hairy legs who, like me, had apparently taken leave of

their senses and showed up to race on skinny tires on frozen mud.



Based on what I saw, I figured that I was in with a shout. Yes, I was

definitely on the older end of the age spectrum of the group buying one-day

licenses, but they generally looked a lot like the folks that I normally

ride with. My confidence was restored. I could handle this.



What I hadn't figured on, however, were the riders in the other class of

racers that were going to be waved off at the same time as the "Citizens"

race. It turns out that the true danger men for my particular little contest

didn't come from the ranks of the "Citizen" racers. Nope. In their wisdom,

and I suspect perverse sense of humor, the race organizers lumped the

"Citizens" racers in with the much younger "Junior" riders, meaning that I

would be racing against kids young enough to be, well, my kids.



My immediate reaction upon finding out that we were going to be lumped in

with the Junior field was to feel guilty about the "Citizens"-class

smackdown that me and a bunch of thirty-somethings were about to unleash on

these enthusiastic, fresh-faced 12- to 16-year olds.



I mean, c'mon, how fair was it for the organizers to throw these children up

against grown men in an athletic contest where strength, skill, and riding

savvy would separate the winners from the losers? I rationalized that, yes,

being shown how its really done by older, more experienced riders would

eventually make these youngsters better racers. But being the one to

brutally drop young Bobby on a climb or elbow little Timmy into the weeds

while traversing a section of barriers would feel a bit like shooting Bambi.



As it turned out, I shouldn't have worried about the little heathens.



My true place in the ?cross food chain was made abundantly clear to me while

I was warming up. I was riding the course in the company of one of the

Junior racers - a young lad of about 12 or so who was perched upon a rigid

fat-tired mountain bike. As we were riding along I was quietly having

fatherly pangs of guilt about the rather uneven physical contest that was

about to occur and grim prospect of being forced to punt little Timmy here

to the back of the pack for the sake of his personal dvelopment as a bike

racer.



We were rolling along smoothly when we eventually came to the dreaded steep

uphill section of barriers. I started my dismount and was in the middle of a

series of sclerotic hops over the barriers when I looked over at little

Timmy. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The little dude busted a major move and

effortlessly cleaned the section with a set of textbook-perfect bunny hops.

As he cleared the last barrier little Timmy took off up the hill like a bat

out of hell, blowing by me like I was chained to the spot,



Oh, the humanity....



Turns out that little Timmy is a sponsored Junior racer who has apparently

been racing bicycles since birth. Not to spoil the ending here, but the

Tim-meister completely buried the field in our race, old and young alike.

Timmy, wherever you are, this frosty cold one is for you, not that you are

old enough to have a drink. Or shave. Thanks for making a bunch of old guys

feel even older. Come back in a few years when you get through puberty.



Anyway, having had ego and expectations crushed once again, the only thing

left to do was to saddle up and get on with it.



The mixed "Citizens" and Junior field numbered about 30 riders, meaning that

the first few laps would probably be spent riding in a pack. The organizers

flagged us off, and the field streamed through a short neutralized

"prologue" section in an attempt to string out the field before folks the

serious hammering began. There was a strong pucker factor here as (1) folks

started wailing right off of the bat, "neutralized" section be damned, and

(2) the prologue was routed down a nasty gravel access road that had me

completely focused on just staying upright. Against all expectations

everyone made it to the first corner, and the ball was opened.



As I mentioned before, little Timmy took off like a fart in a hurricane and

wasn't seen again until the race was over. The rest of us, the old and

unstable, were thundering along over hill and dale in a closely packed

bunch. The first couple of run-ups spread things out a little bit, as did a

few falls. As for my own race, renewed overconfidence was masquerading as

skill as I picked off a couple of riders. I was also doing okay in the

run-up sections, but it was sheer hell on my legs. After two laps, I was

sitting the top third of the field and holding my own. About mid-way through

the race, around lap three, I decided that it was time to make my move up

toward the front.



There are those who say that had I actually completed that third lap up on

two wheels, I would have set a course record. Actually, I did set a course

record of sorts, just not the one that I intended.



Starting that third lap I really put my head down just started hammering

along. I picked off a few more riders and could smell the front of the pack.

What I should have smelled was the tree root that was lurking on the inside

of a tricky downhill turn. BAM! I went down harder than a White House

intern, skittering along across the frozen ground on my ass. Riders streamed

by on both sides as I picked myself up off of the floor and got back on the

bike. Damn.



Only slightly chastened, I turned the wick up even higher and started to

chase the rapidly disappearing lead group. I was trying a little too hard to

make up some time riding down a steep downhill section when I

comprehensively lost it. This one was a thing of beauty: I went flying over

the bars and rag-dolled down the hill in spectacular fashion with the bike

cartwheeling behind me at a respectful distance. Both bike and rider were

deposited in a heap at the bottom of the hill, amid polite applause from the

spectators.



A quick survey of the damage confirmed that my race was officially screwed.

Still, I picked clumps of frozen turf out of my helmet and started running

with the bike, making repairs on the fly. I was able to twist the bars back

relatively straight, but the brake levers were hosed, pointing off at odd

angles. That didn't really matter much as my left hand was throbbing and

beginning to swell, so I really couldn't do much with the brakes anyway.



I could have quit right then and there, but I didn't. Hell, I really can do

just about anything for 45 minutes. So I concentrated on staying up and

finishing, wobbling around the course one-handed those last few laps.



The good news was that I didn't finish dead last. I could see last place

from where I finished, but we need not dwell upon that. I did beat out a

couple of guys who abandoned, so that counts for something. And the swelling

in my sprained thumb eventually went down. The doctor said that I should

keep something cold on it for a few days.



An ice-cold can of Budweiser worked just fine....