Reluctantly Crouched at the Starting Line

I ride mountain bikes. It's kinda my thing. If you find this sport at all boring, please move along ...

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There comes a time in every novice rider's life when he questions his aptitude, really, on a mountain bike.

For someone who is really curious about where they stand in the whole scheme of the sport, the race looms. It's like a huge hammer of justice, just waiting to either humble you to your knees, or glorify your efforts as a cyclist. For me the former took place, and this is my account of it.

A stuffy, humid day in Athens, Georgia…nothing to look forward waking up to unless, of course, you had a race that morning. I did what I could the night before to prepare my bike for the certain beating that was going to take place at 12:35pm the next day. Applying plenty of chain lube, front to back cable adjustments and even the slightest brake pad tweaks; I was stoked to the point of meticulously worshipping the functioning capacity of my bike. A healthy breakfast was had, as was a stretching workout that even a contortionist could appreciate. I wanted to DOMINATE. In fact, it was the only thing on my mind that morning as I drove to the race, with the joyous sounds of punk rock permeating my brain. I reached the site:

It was immediate intimidation...

- $4,000 bikes
- Huge, shaved legs rippling with endurance-proven striations
- Pro-class riders zooming by, their tires spitting gravel as if it were water
- Laughter and conversations being had by whole teams of pro riders

There was a LOT to be afraid of. VERY afraid of.

But I did not let any of this get to me, too much. I got out of my car, swapped my cut-off khakis for lycra and stussy hat for helmet and proceeded to the starting line. What I then took in really got my heart racing. I decided to race sport class, thinking that surely I was no pro, but that beginner-level races were, how should we say, below me. Those around me were emotionless, their faces taught with intent. These men were teeming with aggression as they jockeyed for the ideal start position.

A shot was heard, followed by the sound of 35 rear tires spinning on loose gravel, and we were off. It had begun…

I launched myself from stationary with an explosion of power on my left foot. I soon found myself coasting down the first descent amidst 5 or 6 of the most tuned riders I have ever seen. I remember thinking to myself, I am of the best…look at me! Racing with these guys! This thought changed as soon as the first climb came.

I was swallowed by a 5-wide pack of riders careening by me, left and right, faster than I had ever thought possible on a climb like this one. Someone said, "You're an hour late! The beginner race ended 20 minutes ago! HAHAHAHA!!"

I was enraged.

3 miles later, I felt my heart tugging at it's abilities. Sweat began to pool under my eyes and my sight became blurred by huge clouds of dust enveloping me as I drifted slowly back to accompany the slower riders. This was all too much. I hadn't given ANY thought to the possibility that I should be pacing myself.

5 miles later, I began to cramp. My hydrapack was exhausted; coincidentally so was I. With every crank I felt a knot swell near my knees. The cramps were irreconcilable. The moment I would try to stand and stretch one calve, the other would cry in pain as it underwent yet another torturing cramp. There was NO escape. Thoughts of my dominating this race quickly turned to thoughts of my merely finishing this race. I pressed on, knowing that the next day would bring certain agony accompanied by muscle recovery. I didn't care. It became to me a game of survival. Either I played my cards right in the field of energy conservation, or I lost the hand to others with even more determination than I.

Countless miles later, the finish line was in sight. By this time, I was bleeding at both knees, my head had become a swollen grenade of aching, pulsating annoyance, and my forearms were wrought with lactic distress. I crossed the finish line placing 32nd of 35 riders, beating only those 3 participants who, for one reason or another, simply dropped out of the race. It was humiliating.

The next day I spent all morning in bed, unable to stand. The usual hangover remedies (hot coffee, aspirin, and a nice cold shower) seemed to only insult my condition. I felt like a hospice patient…and I didn't care. I raced my heart out and won the game of survival. At the same time, I learned an awfully valuable lesson: Sometimes bridling your ego can prove to be the best move you can make in an effort to better yourself.

NO race would ever be as beneficial to me as that first race was. I still have my number sheet…#2501, Sport Class, placing: DEAD LAST.