Gun Club CX

Alternate title: Boom Boom, Out Go the Lights.

Sunday morning was cold, crisp, and sunny as I trundled two tired legs out to the Sycamore/Pheasant Hill Gun Club for round 9 of the OVCX series. For the past several weeks locals have had the chance to hold Wednesday practices on this course, so I knew it would be tough, muddy, and technical. I like the course, but am painfully aware that it doesn't suit my strengths, such as they are. (This, to me, is the paradox of cyclocross: CX racers relish exposing and testing their weaknesses in a masochistic adrenaline rush.) I also knew that in a couple places I might benefit from the home-court advantage -- especially on the wicked up-across-and-down hillside cut. Finally, I had this pie-in-the-sky hope that the suffering I had done the previous day had opened my legs up, and that I'd feel strong and ready to go for this race.

Ha.

But I get ahead of myself. I lined up with the rest of the 35+ and 45+ cat 4 men; my OVCX series position got me a nice front-row callup, right next to Butch, who was itching to race after a couple weeks off. I think I saw flecks of saliva on his lips, and he may have barked once or twice. A man fired a shotgun, and we were off. I tuck in behind Butch and Scot Hermann, and we make our way through the "easy" wooded section: a straightaway, then a soft right bend up into the woods, a steady uphill on dirt, left and then right around some bushes, and then a gently curving 180 that better riders -- like Butch and Scot -- took at speed without touching their brakes. At this point I had let a small gap open up, and my legs were tight and sore already. Uh-oh.

A long straightaway back to the finish line, over the pavement and into the sand. By now I'm fourth or fifth wheel, but doing okay. Out of the sand, 180 degrees on the grassy hill, and then the off-camber 180 back around a small tree. I screwed this turn up every lap, but never more so than on the first lap, when I slid out, unclipped my downhill foot, and stumbled to get going again. By this time Butch and Scot are gone with a number of other riders. Down the hillside and sweep left through some mud to the first barrier and runup. Around and down to the right through the bushes and then up to the second time through the sand. It was here that I knew I didn't have it today: it was slightly uphill, and pretty churned up, but should have been rideable (and was for many). I got three-quarters of the way through and just kind of keeled over when I didn't have the power to finish it off (2nd lap: tried to ride again, but dismounted 3/4 of the way through; 3rd lap: "ran" it). Get up, run the rest, hop on, and head for the wooded gravel stretch.

Pick up a little speed there, but scrub it at the end for the left hander into the muck. Pedal pedal washout pedal washout through a couple of twists, and then the out-and-back along the fenceline. About 3/4 of the way coming back the ground turned to mush, dismount, shoulder the bike, and slog along the fence to the righthand uphill turn. Slog up, find the footholes of others for traction, use the fence to make a tight 180-degree turn, and remount before getting too far down the hill. Sweep right (watch the rut) and set up for the left-and-right swoop leading up to the cut in the hill.

Here's the one place where I made up some ground during this race: dismount before the hill, shoulder the bike, and run up, across, and down as tight on the inside as possible. Many riders tried to ride the uphill and washed out, others ran the uphill and struggled to remount while crossing the hill, which was virtually impossible unless you could remount from the right (uphill) side of the bike. Set the bike downhill, remount, and use momentum to curve in a big rightward sweep back into the woods.

And here, in the wooded section, is where I gave up spots all day: grind uphill, then left, right, and left over some loose dirt, mud, and gravel. Okay there. Painful, but okay. Back further into the woods for a gentle downhill to the left turn creekside. Okay there -- I actually worked that turn out with a left-foot-down-and-take-it-tight technique. Then loop toward the steep little kicker that had been rideable in practice, but was a runup (at least for me and those I saw) in Sunday's mud. Remount, and then take the downhill righthand bend tight into the section of the course that made me ride like a clumsy donkey: a slippery little uphill where I kept losing traction and actually dismounted once or twice, a mushy lefthander that I took very gingerly, another tight mushy lefthander that came out of nowhere and kept going left left left, until it came back right and down to solid ground.

On the third lap in this section I was passed by the two leaders in the 45+ category; I was tired; I was cranky and a little puzzled by how poopy I felt, and I was in a lactic haze. I lost traction in one of the mushy lefthanders, dismounted, and actually ran along behind those two guys through this section until we headed to the righthand downhill. Mind you, it was relatively level here -- tight and twisty, but far from a running section of the course. But I was so dismayed at my lame-o handling skills that I chose to jog until I found safer ground. Part of me also thought, hey, we're in the woods, so it's not like anyone can see us. And then, to my horror, I heard the clipped British accent of our announcer describing the very duel for the lead of the 45+ race going on right in front of me. I almost stopped and left the course in mortification as it dawned on me: if he can see them, he can see me; and if he can see us, everyone over on the hill can see us. I kept waiting for him to say something like "and as these two duel it out for the lead of their category, some Darkhorse chap has forgotten how to ride his bike and is trudging along on foot behind them. That's a puzzling tactic, and not one you normally see in a cyclocross race." After all, he had earlier pointed out that I had dismounted "a little early" before the double barriers, so I knew he wasn't afraid to offer, um, constructive criticism. Mercifully, he refrained from commenting on my hike through the woods, or at least I didn't hear him.

Anyway, after the diabolic wooded section came a little passage through some trees, the "horseshoe" with Tony on the drums, the double barriers and a gravel downhill to the start line. Each lap concluded with the same "easy" wooded section that kicked off the race. Three laps, barely hold off Sparky at the finish, and be happy with 7th.

And I am -- happy with 7th, that is. At least, I can talk myself into being happy with it, even though it was disappointing to push the accelerator and have no response both days this past weekend. Sunday was, by my count, my 28th race in 2009, and while I've had significant stretches of not racing (mid-July to mid-September), that's more than double the number of races I've ever done in one year, and triple what I did last year. The smart part of my brain tells me to shut it down, to increase race and training loads more gradually year-to-year, to rest, recharge, and begin building a base for a bigger season next year.

This other part of my brain, though, I can't seem to shut up. It's whispering to me: Lexington -- come on, just one more ...

[pictures from Jeffrey Jakucyk]