Castaic is the toughest climbing course in the SoCal series, or so I’m told. God I hope so! Sunday’s race left no doubt in my mind. I wasn’t too nervous during the time leading up to the race; I already knew it was hard from the previous week’s practice session. At the start, only a few lacewings fluttered around my stomach, barely noticeable compared to three weeks ago. I was geared for climbing and didn’t bother trying to get the hole shot. The first and hardest climb is only a few hundred yards away, and I know what happens on hills. After working through all my fellow Clydesdales and assorted old guys it was time to see if I can keep the series leader in my sights. This time I kept him close for enough miles to learn some things. In fact I had several chances to pass him, but knew I wouldn’t be able to sustain the effort when there were five more major climbs to go. I was right behind him on the first climb, my wheel only a couple of feet away when we crested the hill. Much to my surprise, he didn’t take off on the flat section. He was tired too! Unfortunately, when we started down the lake view section he started to put a little distance on me. I may have to re-think my decision to run fully rigid if I want a chance at reeling him in. One of the sandy switchbacks grabbed my front wheel, and flipped me off the side of the trail. My bike and I were unharmed so I quickly got back on and finished the downhill section.

At the bottom of the next climb I saw the leader just a short distance ahead and tried catching him. After closing the gap to third and ten, I lost traction in a sandy section and had to punt. Walking is not a fast way to climb, and this is where he started putting some distance on me. I was feeling pretty bad by this time and actually wondered if I could even complete another lap. I couldn’t sustain climbing efforts very well despite careful fueling before and during the race. By the time I climbed the third hill I was dreading a second go around, and I hadn’t even completed the downhill section. Now, that sounds like a reward after all that climbing, but you would be mistaken. Imagine being beaten about the entire body (special emphasis on the lower back) with one of those folding metal chairs that you sat in for concerts in grade school. I’m sure that a suspension fork won’t solve all my problems, but I was really questioning my “enjoyment” of racing at that point. My brain must have suffered too, because I took a wrong turn and ended up off the course. I followed our practice route which was of course changed for the race. Charging down the hill in order to clear a sandy climb I ended up with nowhere to go and no tracks to follow. Turning around, I headed back down and through the tunnel towards the finish area. After grabbing a fresh bottle, it was time for masochist session #2, or the second lap of death.

Fortunately, I was feeling slightly, and I mean slightly, better by now and started climbing the first hill. After a couple of switchbacks I hazarded a glance down the hill and saw my teammate Paul Amodie and his Viking helmeted companion starting their climb. They were close! I could live with my teammate and friend beating me, but a guy in a Viking helmet? No way! That might have given me the incentive I needed to get my ass cracking. Adding further insult, my bike was starting to ride like a cheap coil mattress sans pillow top. The rear end felt like a faulty pipe bomb, ready to put me out of my misery at any moment. I could feel the rear wheel move on each pedal stroke (not round and round, but side to side) and it was accompanied by a loud metallic clanging/creaking which I could feel through the cranks and seat. It felt pretty bad and the handling was weird. The forces on a single speed are pretty extreme when climbing and each clang had me wincing with thoughts of the big DNF, and a Viking waving as he passed me by, or worse stopping to help. I pretended to ignore it and continued on. It survived. Team diagnosis? Almost roached hub.

After the first/fourth hill, I had the course largely to myself and tried to enjoy it as much as possible. After getting ¾ of the way up the last hill I looked down and saw no one else. Good, I put some distance on my remaining competition. Cresting the last hill was a huge relief. I didn’t even care that the downhill was further punishment; at least it was a different kind. I ended up behind a young kid on a too big bike for much of the single track. He politely offered to let me pass, but there wasn’t much room to do so without possibly crashing him, so I just followed him for a while admiring his zeal. I knew that nobody was right behind me, and I wasn’t going to catch the guys in first and second who were likely into their second beers by now, so I cruised with the kid. It gave me some time to think about how I should have taken this up sooner in life. Watching the kid ride down the bumpy trail I knew he wasn’t burdened with the thoughts of getting hurt, that his bike wasn’t perfect, or that someone of little consequence was faster, he was just riding the best he could and having fun doing it. This race really had me physically and mentally against the wall. The fitness achieved in the last seven months revealed itself as a thin veneer, and I realized that I expect too much from myself at times. Then again how do you ever achieve anything difficult without expecting too much? Yeah, I got third place, but the series leader is still kicking my butt, and my lizard brain just can’t wrap itself around that reality. When the trail widened I gave him plenty of time to move over, and carefully passed him. I told him he was doing great. Again in that polite voice he thanked me, and said something else that I regrettably didn’t hear as the wind rushed through my ears. I like to think it was something simple yet profound, in a way only the young can impart.

PS. For all you mathematicians/physicists out there, I know that the title equation is the most simplistic of the work formulas, but I didn’t feel like trying to get all the weird symbols into the text. I also know that gravity doesn’t actually “suck,” but there doesn’t seem to be a real consensus as to what it really is either. Maybe it is the “weak force” we’ve heard so much about in the news. I know my force was weak. If the title bothers you, use this scientifically correct one “Difficult Race, Glad I Survived.”