Sketches of Cyclocross №1
Everything that is Before
It’s a little before 5:30 on a Saturday morning and I’m just outside of Manassas, Virginia driving west in my Tacoma on I-66. It’s excruciatingly cold outside and I’ve got the heater cranked up all the way. Cold air of this bracing caliber is new to this Fall season of relatively mild temps but has been slowly creeping into our morning rituals here, each day dropping lower by a few degrees until now when it seems as if the dense chill has moved in like a broad-shouldered seatmate on a long flight who will silently fight you for possession of the arm rest the whole way. I’m on my way to the 2016 Winchester Apple Cross — my fourth cyclocross race and my seventh bike race ever.
For the uninitiated, here is cyclocross (or Cross, or CX) in a nutshell: (1) you’ll ride a bike over grass, gravel, dirt, mud, sand, or through puddles. (2) If you cannot ride because of an obstacle on the course, un-ass your bike, and carry it over the obstacle, then start riding once clear. (3) If you get to a section where it’s easier to run then dismount the bike, hoist it over your shoulder, and run up that section. Remount when able and continue riding. (4) While doing this, ride as hard as you possibly can. You should not feel comfortable while racing cyclocross.
Like road or mountain bike racing, the sport is broken up into classes. Noobs like me in our first year of racing are in Category 5. Our races are typically 30 minutes in duration, whereas the Cat 1/Elite races are generally an hour long. After the first lap, the judges determine how many laps are to be ridden (i.e. leader’s time divided into the planned race time…rounded to a whole number, of course). If during the race, you get lapped by the leader, you must exit the course at the end of the lap you’re on.
Some describe it as NASCAR for bikes or “like Steeplechase, but you carry the horse”. At any rate, its been around for over a hundred years and enjoys a much larger following in Europe than in North America, though interest and awareness seem to be growing here. Wikipedia does much better justice to the sport’s origins here.
Back in my truck. I’ve got music playing loudly though my iPhone which is connected to my truck’s stereo. It’s the same playlist I’ve listened to on my way to races and has long-been a go-to resource for motivation before just about any other athletic event. Bang Bang by Trouble Andrew; War of the Superbikes, Turbo Rock, and Razzamanaz by the Meatmen; an assortment of songs from White Zombie; Thunderstruck (live) by AC/DC, a cover of Let’s Lynch The Landlord by L7, and several other high-octane songs all playing at a volume that would normally be at odds to my 40-year old ear drums.
The music is a soundtrack to a looped highlight reel that is playing in my head. In this movie there’s no footage of me walking into the office or hanging ornaments on Christmas trees with my family. There’s nothing in there about my relationships with my friends. There is only bike racing. The highlight reel is an amalgam of not just my previous three cyclocross races, but the three races I competed in earlier in the year on my mountain bike. It’s been a short racing career so far, but I’ve got tons of footage. There I am: screaming a couple hundred yards or so down the grassy hill into the 180-degree turn at Biketoberfest. From the same is a clip where my back tire slid out from under me after taking a descending turn along a hillside. Every time I replay it in my head anxiety needles at me even though I recover (though several others on that spot crashed and a couple were injured). There’s the insidious climb toward the mansion at Charm City Cross in Baltimore and the exhilaration of reaching the top only to barrel down a series of turns back toward the main viewing area…also the slippery over-under where I saw that kid on his bike slide down when he didn’t have enough momentum to make it up all the way. There’s a clip of me at the Cranky Monkey Darkside race where I led my field for the first few miles until I succumbed to a mechanical problem; I recall my high-pitched panting as I pedaled as fast as I could to escape the pursing wolf pack. There is the blurry hint of spectators yelling and the traditional cowbells clanging throughout. I’ve got plenty more footage and none of it has been filmed with a GoPro…it’s all in my head and it’s in straight-up re-run mode as I drive along.
My coffee is warm and I alternate between it and my two-day-old sugar free Monster energy drink. Keeping my eyes on the road, I reach across to my trusty backpack and fish out my lunch bag. I need to eat something — either my peanuts and raisins or some apple slices. Anything to help stifle that feeling in my stomach which, presently, is indistinguishable between what emerging, mild food poisoning feels like or just plain hunger. I’ve got water somewhere around here, too…
I am a man in a steel capsule plunging through the inky, moonless pre-dawn. To the world outside I’m an otherwise ordinary pickup truck with a bike on the back of it sailing along the interstate. Inside the capsule it is a pandemonium; it is a circus.
I depart the interstate toward Winchester, VA and the sun makes its sleepy appearance in my rearview, presenting me with a light grey horizon and just enough visibility to make out the rolling silhouettes of the Shenandoas. On either side of me is a dimly lit bucolic landscape dotted with pastures, patches of vineyard, the occasional farmhouse, and undulating winding road. The cleared sections of the land reveal a smoothness which suggests a giant hand slowly swept across the Earth the way one does when making a sandcastle. For a few miles I feel that I am the only person on the planet who is awake until a string of cars greet me heading the opposite direction. I squint in their headlights and look off to my right to avoid the glare. Dawn is breaking and if there’s a time on this trip when I’ll hit a deer, I’m certain it’ll be when I’m blinded. The possibility of damaging my truck or getting injured concerns me slightly less the potential angst of missing this race.
The sun rises rapidly and light pours over Frederick County as if a giant light switch has been flipped. Even more suddenly my bladder screams to me its fullness. I try to ignore it but eventually I heed its warnings and pull over to the side of the road. I pee while pretending to “check something out” on the passenger side of my truck and breathe deeply the dewy morning chill. I promise myself that I’ll retire in a place just like this. I need to get to the course. I want to see its taped boundaries and how the race organizers have engineered its path along the punchy terrain. I want to get my bib and pin it to my shirt. I want to jock up and ride the course a couple times before the actual race. The circus within my truck is entertaining, but the energy is not matched with physical action. Maybe this is what going to a strip club is like? I’m ahead of schedule, but I make no further effort to “just be” in the moment and so I hop back in the truck and motor along as Jesus Built My Hotrod kicks off.
I’m entering Winchester proper now. I should only have about 5 more minutes of driving until I’m there. My palms grow a little sweatier and the hunger/food poisoning feel gives way to the familiar butterfly feeling. I’m aware of its distinct feel, its gentle burn that seems to cover the whole of my gut, not an isolated ripping feel. I’ve known it since Elementary school through to when I first ran track in Junior High and then Cross Country in High School. In later years the feeling would precede a tough exam in college, combat sorties in Afghanistan, or packing up the family and starting a new assignment somewhere. Welcome back, old friend. I’ve been expecting you.
I arrive at the Winchester Recreational Park a little before 7 AM. The park is unfamiliar to me and is a disorganized network of roads, hills, playgrounds, and beautifully abundant green space. I drive slowly looking for signs pointing me to the race, though it’s early and it’s unlikely that the volunteers have had a chance to put them out. Alas, I see the characteristic red and white tape boundaries of a cross course up a hill off to the right. I employ my Zen navigational powers to find my way to the parking lot. My music is quieter now, as if the intensity of its volume will consume my limited navigational bandwidth.
It’s common that I’m normally one of the first racers to arrive at the event. I plan to get there an hour and a half before the start so that I can check in, do one last check of my bike, pre-ride the course (a must), eat something, and then soak in the energy of the venue. For as long as I’ve been racing — as far back as 7th grade — it’s been as much of a psychological game as a physical one. I can’t tell you how many times I listened to the soundtrack to Glory during my 9th grade season of Indoor Track on my Walkman as I ran the race at least 50 times in my head (don’t joke — there’s some great tracks on there!). As a Cat 5 racer, we are the first race of the day and normally start around 8:30 which means I need to arrive by around 7…which means I need to wake up at about 4:45 depending on how far of a drive it is. Yes, on a Saturday. For some, this means that a portion of the suffering you experience in CX is felt as soon as you wake up! Top of the morning, motherfucker!
I don my gloves and hat as I open the access hatch to my capsule. Winds are calm, and the air has retained the same dampness and penetrates my two shirts like a serrated knife. I make my way over to the check-in pavilion and shudder up to the picnic bench. Milling about on the opposite side are bundled up race volunteers. The more senior of the group greets me and then talks the volunteers through the check-in process as he helps me along. “Do you have a license?” the man asks. “Nope…need a one-day, please”. I’m not being curt, I’m just too cold right now to use more words. If you’re going to race cross in a USA Cycling (USAC)-sanctioned race, you need a license. Don’t let this scare you off! You can buy a year-long license or a one-day (usually $10). All that will be asked of you is that you fill out a form with your age, e-mail address, and emergency contact info among other things (Here’s a tip: bring a pen from your warm car since the ones lying on the picnic table have cold, viscus ink in them and may not work).
I try to memorize the number on my bib and grab the quart jar of apple butter I ordered when I registered and head back to the truck. Oh yeah, cross races are also great for the variety of swag available: shirts, gloves, hats, neck gaiters, stickers. Some for sale, some for free. The sun is in full blossom now and more cars are starting to arrive. I feel like I’m ahead of the game and with plenty of free time, I can take special care to study and appreciate the course. But first, I’ve gotta put on a damn jacket!
Back at my truck I slap on some additonal layers and strap on my cycling shoes. Strolling to the back of my truck, I am greeted by the simplistic beauty of my ride. My bike is a gorgeous flat black silhouette of a machine made by Niner. It’s not the most high-end bike you can buy, but it’s the most expensive thing I’ve ever bought for myself. Like most cross bikes, mine resembles a standard road bike from a distance. To the trained eye, there are subtle variations in the frame geometry that allow mud to accumulate with less of a drag on performance. The tires are slightly wider (33 mm) and have knobby tread on them. To the really well-trained eye, they’ll see that my Niner RLT-9 is actually a Gravel Grinder…but we’ll not go down that rabbit hole here. It’s very light (especially compared to my old mountain bike), clocking in at about 20lbs. Some folks name their rigs. I haven’t landed on a name I like, though sometimes I think The Velocitractor sounds pretty butch — like what one might name a monster truck.
The Velocitractor is perched upon my hitch-mounted bike rack, its matte-black powder coat stubbornly reflecting the sunlight. I spin both the wheels and stand, briefly, in appreciation as the growling from the rear cassette as the momentum winds down. There’s no purpose to this spinning of wheels, but if someone were to place some nachos and seven-layer dip in front of you, you’d totally hit it, right? I remove my bike and lean it against the bed of my truck while I put my helmet on and wait for my GPS to find itself in time and space. I clip in and slowly roll my way toward the staging area where, a little more than an hour from now, I’ll be racing amidst this jumble of tape, roots, trees, grassy hills, and spectators.
In my vast experience of all three cyclocross races, I have adopted a number of rules of thumb. Primary among them is this: You need to pre-ride the course. There is no better way to mitigate the risks inherent in racing cross than to develop an appreciation for the character of the course. You don’t need to have every turn memorized (good luck with that) but you need to study the terrain and the course layout. Make a mental note of terrain features that will send you over the handlebars or where you’re liable to have your bike slide out from underneath you if you’re not careful. Make note of narrow corridors of the course, such as single-track through the woods, where entry position will be important to maintaining placement among the other riders. And of course, you’ll need to know which areas you’ll need to dismount for.
I depart the starting grid for my first pre-ride lap. In order to remember the more prominent areas of the course, I chunk them into sections and name them as one would waypoints on a map. The first quarter mile or so is the prologue: a straight section over asphalt which transitions onto a gentle grassy descent before skinnying down to the customary width of a cyclocross course. After the start, I know we’ll all enter this section at high speed and will have plenty of distance to set our initial position in the pack. I name this section simply “start”. As the course weaves right and then left, I make note of how I want to enter the turns in order to minimize my braking. A straight-away and then a right 90 degree turn. I’m surprised by an abrupt and steeply descending jink to the left with an immediate right turn to go back uphill like a big horseshoe. The course narrows here and there is only room for one rider to safely pass though. To make the bottleneck worse, most of us will have to dismount to get back up the hill. Someone’s gonna wreck here, I can feel it. I give this section two names: “Pavilions”, owing to the landmark building and “Bastard”, describing the horseshoe.
A few twists and turns and a sweeping right arc along the downward slope of a grassy hill that will keep us on the outer edges of our tires. I make a mental note that I should consider dropping the pressure in my tires a little bit to maximize my traction. The course straightens out and I’m able to open up a bit as I hit a straightaway roughly the length of a football field. As I approach the left 180 turn at the end, the barriers come into view. They’re the standard 15.75" high wood planks and there are two of them spaced roughly 10 feet apart. At the very apex of this turn where the barriers are is the location of the team tents. Socially anxious Phil worries about tripping over a barrier and landing teeth-first on the ground in front of these guys. I name this section “barriers” and make note of the departure from this section where I can build up speed before the next small section of turns. From there we’ll transition to a section of road that will send us screaming downhill. I resist the temptation to pop my chain onto my big ring and haul ass downward opting to try to keep a steady heartbeat. At the bottom we’ll bunt back up onto the grass via a left hand climb and then another descent onto pavement. I name this “Double Drop” and it is the prelude to the aptly-named “Belgian Wall”.
The Belgian Wall is a common feature in cyclocross and is generally intended to get you off your bike and to start running uphill. Mission accomplished for this guy. I try to ride up it, but I can’t maintain the momentum needed to keep me safely upright through the two 180 degree switchbacks that wind their way upward to the crest of the hill. I un-ass and start trotting. My legs start to whine about the exertion but I ignore ‘em! Before remounting I look down and appreciate the steepness of this hill and smile. I get to do this today! I remount and pedal toward the wooded section. I briefly prophesize jarring, slippery roots and am proven right. This section is called “Woods” and is relatively brief. Back out to a clearing where the main spectating area sits and then back into the woods via left hand descent. Watch those roots at the bottom where you’re turning or your front wheel will slip out. This section is called “Woods 2” and exiting this section takes you back to the starting area.
I roll gently back toward my truck. I’ve broken a light sweat under my windbreaker and want to cool off. I grab some apple slices and munch on those as I watch the parking lot slowly fill up. A few familiar faces from previous races begin to appear. I strike up a conversation with a guy we’ll call Dave. Like me, Dave is a Cat 5 racer and we discuss the parts of the sport we like and talk about courses from previous races. At that moment, I begin to feel that I, along with all the other Cat 5 riders I keep seeing, are kind of like the freshman class of this year. I mention that next year we’re expected to race in Category 4 and then wonder aloud whether I’ll be as competitive. I quickly reaffirm, though, that I’m not out here to stand on the podium and I openly admit that I’ll probably never win a race. Frankly, I just like being here and pushing myself while mixing it up with other riders. There are a lot more decorations to hang on that tree, and I’ll do so later. For now, though, my social awkwardness and the fact that I’m distracted by our race (45 minutes to go) compells me to do a second pre-ride.
My second lap I go faster, maybe a little under what I anticipate will be my race pace. When I reach Bastard, I see two riders from Team Bikinetic reviewing this vexing feature. I recognize one of the riders from a few other races I’ve done, including my first mountain bike race where I had stopped at the top of a hill at a water station to take some ibuprophen. She allowed me to depart ahead of her as she grabbed some water and then ate my lunch about a half mile later as I lugged my old steel bike up a steep hill. It was good to see experienced team riders contemplating this section. We talk briefly; I re-attempt Bastard in order to solidify the counter-intuitive feel of dismounting here, then press on.
Faster down Double Drop, faster up the Belgian Wall, moderately through Woods 1 and 2 and then back to the main park area to keep the blood flowing. We’re at about 15 minutes until go-time. I stop and talk to David once more before motoring back out along a random route across some nearby parking lots. Anticipation is starting to well up inside me. I can’t understand how there’s a group of folks just standing over their bikes at the staging area with so much time before the start.
Self-Doubt makes its presence known as I coast into the gaggle of other riders. Why the fuck are you doing this? Do you even want to be here right now? Dude, just get this over with…why even try hard today? We’ve got about 5 minutes to go. A distant megaphone’d voice tells other riders, most of them juniors from the next race, to clear the course. An official starts calling out our numbers and one by one we make our way to the starting grid. Without fail, you’ll hear a guy say “Hey man, what’s my number say” as he cranes his head over his left shoulder and tugs at the top seam of his shirt. There’s an empty slot at the front row when my number is called. I’m in mild disbelief as I make my way to rest between two other riders. This is good and bad. Good in that I have a wonderful position to start and, if I’m quick enough, can enter the main course in a great position. Bad in that I’ll somehow need to coordinate how to start my watch when the whistle blows and then mash down on my pedals and get movin’ since the guy behind me is probably just as wound up as I am and ready to go off like a bomb.
The official announces that we have about 5 minutes before the start. I rest my forearms on my handlebars and stare at the asphalt beneath me, taking deep measured breaths. My heart is racing and pumping acid throughout my body. I sit up and look ahead down the prologue. On the sidelines are girlfriends and wives taking pictures. Music is playing in the distance from where the announcer is. Time stretches before me and my peripheral vision seems non-existent. What if I lock handlebars with one of the guys next to me? What if I’m bumped from behind? What if we all wreck in the first turn? No! Be cool, man. Breathe. Stop being dramatic! Just Ride hard, and ride smart. Have some fun for Christ’s sake!
I am a fighter jet on the deck of an aircraft carrier ready to catapult off into a fierce, but altogether sportsman-like dogfight. I am an arrow in front of the taught drawstring of a bow. I am a ball bearing in the leather pouch of a slingshot, waiting to be released. I am engulfed in white hot flames. I am exactly where I want to be right now.
[No.2 is here]
