Riding Your Bike In The Grass.

 I didn't want to race 'Cross. I thought I had made that abundantly clear. Friends would ask me when I would finally cave in and try it, and I would usually respond with a concise list of reasons (excuses) why cyclocross was not worth my time.

It's cold.

It's often wet.

You have to get off your bicycle (something I am opposed to on principle). Sometimes more than once.

You will probably crash.

There is a strong likelihood that I won't win my first race. 

It's cold. 

Saturday, a perfect storm of inexcusable circumstances delivered me at my very first Cyclocross race.
1.) There was a bike provided by one of the main antagonists in my battle against the 'cross; Shopengarten. 

2.) I was in Town

3.) Someone told me that there would be beer, and also cake. (false) 

4.) Smith Anderson, legendary "Hell yes I'll try this incredibly taxing, potentially dangerous, arguably unpleasant activity," man, was also set to race his first 'cross race this weekend.

5.) I like bike racing.

Having a hard time with being out "Smithed," I finally relented.  

I drove to Look park with 'cross antagonist #2, AJ Moran. I say antagonist, but really it's more like cross supporter and enthusiast. AJ wanted me to try cyclocross because he loves it. Hopengarten (antagonist #1) wanted me to try cyclocross, it seems, only so that he could tell me how much better he is at it then I am.

I digress.

We arrive before the sun has decided to grace us with it's presence. It's cold (see reason 1& 6). AJ fixes my front brake which is rubbing, as I ask him about how not to look like I have never done this before. I remove the bottle cage which I had installed the night before. Apparently you are not allowed to stay hydrated during a cross race. With the bicycle in full working order, I set off to pre-ride the course with AJ. I practice dismounting (badly), jumping (also badly) and running (seriously) with my bicycle. Every time I do, I curse, and complain,  and think of my poor Cervelo sitting lonely in my girlfriends garage. 

One lap is about all I can afford to devote to warming up. I don't want to do the "run up" any more than I have to. 

I reported to staging; a cattle call. In Cyclocross, you are staged in order of a combination of your results, and when you registered. Because I had registered one hour before registration closed, and because this was my first race, I was placed dead last. 150th. This meant that I would have to pass the entire field to have a good result. I lined up among a sea of unshaved legs. Men in skinsuits and padded gloves. Mountain-bike shoes caked in mud from their last outing. I was in unfamiliar territory.  

The whistle blows, and we're off. The sound of the peloton is different, and unsettling.. and really slow. I'm caught up behind a tangled mess of humanity. I dropped the 'ol hammer, and picked up about 50 places in the opening straights. I noticed that the amount of shaved legs around me now out-numbered their hairy counterpart. I also noticed I stopped moving up with such ease. That and I had all but sprinting in the opening leg of the race and was now well in the top end of my limit. 

I continued slowly picking up places during the race. Then I would crash, lose 10 places, and then chase my original spot down. Crash. Sprint. Recover. Repeat. I will spare you the details of the entire race, as it does not deviate from this formula. 

Two fun things happened though: 1.) I was racing against a child who could not have been more than 13. He beat me. Badly.  2.) In the last quarter of the race, a guy, looking very dirty, shoots past me on a carbon Ridley.  I jumped on his wheel, and was determined not to let him beat me. He was steadily pulling away from me however, right up until we hit the tarmac. He started looking back at me, sizing me up, seeing if I was going to make a go of it. I was, and I did. As I came calmly around him for victory (48th), I had goosebumps. I will never tire of that feeling. Even if I was 5min slower than the winning group. 

While this write up is, without question or argument, a little on the harsh side; I still had fun. I like the idea of Cyclocross. It's racing for racing's sake, and that is an idea that I can totally get behind. I can say that I probably won't try it again... Until I try it again.  

Starting At The End

From a category 5 sandbagger, to a category 2 wheel-sucker.  I guess it's fitting to start reflecting on the chaos and mayhem of this season well after the dust has settled. I've dieted, abstained, and spent more hours in solitude and sobriety then I care to even begin to think about. All for the Final 200.

For those of you who know me, and for those about to embark on the journey that is my life as a marginally successful, now semi-professional bike racer, I think that it is important that you know a bit more.

I have come to the very stark realization that I can only do one thing well. I used to operate under the assumption that I could do several things well enough to be considered a "good" bike racer. I thought, for a while, that I was a pretty decent climber. In-fact, I maintain that it is one of my favorite things to do on a bike (much to the shock of all of my friends). I used to grin a hideous, sadistic grin every time the road turned up. Then I met some friends. Friends like Kyle Bruley and Mark Theeman. Both are tiny in adult human male standards... shells of men really, but when there is a rise in the road, I resign the fact that I will have to see them at the top, should they be so kind to wait for me. They are scary good. I am not.

You'd think that knowing this simple fact, and applying reason, long flat stretches of road would be my bread and butter. You would, however, be laughably incorrect. Again, this crashing realization comes on the heels of meeting people who are just plain better than me. Keith Cardoza, and Kyle Butler. Think of linebackers. Then put those linebackers on bikes. Do you have a comical picture in your head? You have just met two weird anomalies of our incomprehensible sport. Keith (better known as the "wattage cottage") and Kyle (whom I refer to as the freight-train) both have an engines that defy understanding. And physics really. If I were to even attempt to hold the same pace as either one of them out of their respective drafts, it would become quickly apparent how poor a time-trialist-overall-bike-rider I am. I am not Strong... Also AJ Moran. The kid barley sleeps, and routinely pulls day-long efforts out of nowhere.

So what is it? At this point there isn't much left to be good at. If you can't climb, and you can't hold your own in a break, there's not a whole lot left for you to do in a bike race. There is one thing. Only one.

I'm fast. But only in specific situations, and only for a short amount of time. Adding that many qualifiers, and taking into consideration how bad I am at everything else, puts me firmly into the "Pure Sprinters" category. Which as you may know, is a very polite way of saying "He's really not very good at the sport of cycling, but I won't challenge him in the sprint because he'll crash me (read: beat me)." I can sprint faster than my teammates. Only Bruley and Keith will protest this. Mostly because they have the 100% correct mentality of a true bike racer: I am faster than you, always, in any situation, but partly because they are "all-rounders" and are good at everything. They are, of course, incorrect.



I won a bunch of races this year. Some were earned, some were stolen out of the hands of deserving cat. 5 racers. The point is: When it came down to a bunch sprint, all the way up to my brief stay in cat 3, I felt like it was my time to shine. Like it was a non-issue. I felt like Cavendish. Like an asshole. If there was three to go, and I was 7th wheel, It was game over. I can Sprint.

I've read a lot about the "mindset of the sprinter." How you have to know you are going to win to even enter the ring: Elbows sharpened, head down, teeth clenched. You have to be overconfident, and brash, or else you are going to get eaten alive. It's scary how accurate every word of those essays are. There is, however, no mention about the potential embarrassment you face as a sprinter in every other aspect of cycling. Or even in the sprint!

It's a very hard way to race. Worrying, waiting, hoping everything stays together so that you can have your moment. In reality, I spend the whole week before a race thinking of nothing except the Final 200 meters of the race. When you win, it is literally indescribable. When you don't, it's one of the most personal, humbling, aggravating, defeats you'll ever experience. Until the next one. Cycling is a team sport, but in reality, if you can't deliver, and if you fail, you are the only one to shoulder it.

I have too much more to say on the matter, and as this is the premiere introduction to who I am and how I exist on my bicycle, I will keep it brief(er).

This coming season holds a myriad of exciting uncertainties, and one hard truth: I have to get way faster just to be mediocre against my new competition. This collection of ramblings will serve both as a place for you to come and read a little about my life (going on a most arrogant assumption that anyone would possibly care), and so that I stay on top of my training and preparation for what promises to be the hardest five months of racing ever. I will write about my hopes, dreams, training follies, and most likely, all of you.

Stay tuned!


Sam
(I'm faster than Bruley)