After a long hiatus, I have decided to start posting on my blog again...
I'm at a point in my life where I would like to get myself more self-disciplined and I think disciplining myself to do regular blog posts will help me be disciplined in other time management areas. Basically, I have a pretty busy life but sometimes waste the time that I do have on frivolous and unimportant things. Somehow I suppose that if I can achieve the time management skills to do regular blog posts (more on the to do list!) that I will be able to manage my time with more important things...
That, and it will keep me from watching too many TLC re-runs when there are much more productive things to do.
I would like to post one thing per week. It will likely not be the most interesting or entertaining piece of literature you'll come upon in any given week but it is more for me than for you... If "you", the readership, exists. That said, I hope some of my banter is worth the read.
“Welcome to Hell!” was what the marshal assigned to checkpoint 23 (or was it 24… maybe 25… the haze surrounding my grey matter blurred a lot of the details.) taunted me with as I rode past his skull and cross bones flag that he had erected on the other side of the trail. “I don’t want to tell you that it only gets worse from here – but it does!” My first thought was that I think he actually did want to tell me that it got worse ahead and my second, more chilling, was -- did he actually know about the almost 10 km hike-a-bike over flat terrain that I had just completed with my mud clogged bike on the north section of Tom Snow. The only “user groups” that frequent that section of trail are the free range cattle and the ranchers on horses who churn that low lying area east of Moose Mountain into a hellacious, soupy swamp where the mud is more than a little bit questionable in terms of its bacteria content. I guess the other users of this trail are us mountain bikers that sign up for the Bow-80 every year so we can endure what the gracious marshal coined “Hell” and come out on top triumphantly no matter which finishing position we are battling for.
Even as I write this, the dull pain of yesterday’s Bow-80 lingers in my legs trying its best to not let me forget the mix of agony and satisfaction that I, and close to 200 others, endured. That is XC mountain bike racing for you. That short narrative doesn’t describe your average XC race but the “grand narrative” of personal accomplishment is echoed at every race. There are several things that set mountain biking apart from other cycling disciplines and those are the things that will ensure that I keep coming back to the sport that captured me. I will attempt to list, for me, what defines mountain bike racing. I should also point out that I take part in and enjoy most niches of cycling and those that I don’t participate in myself, I still respect greatly. This is not meant as a comparison to other cycling disciplines but as a personal look into what I love about racing.
The single-most, defining aspect of XC mountain bike racing is the art of mastering technical difficulties that a course throws at you while you are in a state of physical duress. This is paramount to the sport and is part of every good race course. A rider brings herself to the point where, if she were on a wind trainer indoors, she would have her head down and saliva dripping off her chin. In the world of mountain bike racing, that is exactly when we throw a 100 metre descent at her with 9 turns, 3 drop-offs, and countless trees to avoid that come within inches of her handlebars not to mention the seemingly infinite roots under her tires, some to find a way over and others just to distract her. Or… perhaps she needs to climb up 100 metres with the same obstacles all doing there best to impede forward movement. The technical prowess of a rider truly is an art. One that I never tire of watching an artist perform.
The second part of my collection of what defines mountain bike racing is that it is not for “fakers” or “excuse-makers”. If you’ve ever been part of a mountain bike race you’ll remember the surreal moments in the last few seconds before the starter pistol breaks the quiet sound of the athlete’s nervous shallow breathing. I have been racing for about ten years now and I still get butterflies before I race (that is an improvement over throwing up with nervousness like I did when I started in my Junior days). That nervousness comes from knowing that your quads, heart and lungs are going to be in a world of pain in seconds and there is nowhere to hide and no one to point the finger at but yourself if things don’t work out in your favour. You can’t hide in the pack and show up for the “important” part of the race. You can’t “sit in and just finish with the pack”, there is no pack most of the time. If you try you’ll likely be spit out the back and be dropped like a soiled chamois. Eighth place is better than ninth place which is better than tenth place. Results that just say “same time” are a non-existent reality. The race isn’t over in one to five minutes. You’re going to have to suffer to success or suffer to humility or just give up like a loser. In the end it is you and what you could offer up on a given day.
Mountain biking is painful. Not in a meaningless sort of way or in a way that needs to be remedied (although occasionally it is that sort). It is the type of pain that is simultaneously rewarding. If you’ve never thought about letting the air out of your tires and claiming you double flatted so you could end your race early with some sort of dignity, you’ve never raced XC mountain bikes. It’s universal as far as I know. I’ve had races that I have literally finished in tears from exhaustion and joy that I finished in spite of the exhaustion. I’ve raced La Ruta de los Conquistadores and on Day One, in 2006, brought myself to the point where I and the soul of my very being were separate and were able to dialogue about the essence of existence. I exaggerate to make a point but honestly that is what it felt like. Pain and suffering are synonymous with racing your mountain bike long distances.
Lastly, in the definition of mountain bike racing, is that it is joy. I use the word “joy” because I don’t feel comfortable using the word “fun”. Yes, of course mountain biking is fun, and I believe we should incorporate the absolute maximum amount of fun into our races and the time before and after. However, if I’m burrowing down to the core of what defines my mountain bike racing, I have to choose the word joy. Mountain bike racing brings me joy when (or after) I’m suffering. It brings me joy when I look forward to the next epic race. It brings me joy when I rail that ridiculously gnarly section of trail in the BC bike race! Mountain bike racing is one of the things that gives me great joy in my life. It is beat only by faith, family and relationships with friends but it weaves its way through those aspects of my life as well.
I will have stories to follow these pictures as soon as I can. I'm trying to get bit of work in before I leave to Ontario for a wedding. Needless to say I'm busy but I'd like to have the whole story up by the end of the weekend.
This year La Ruta was going to be 4 days. That meant it would start on a Wednesday and end on a Saturday. With a schedule like that it made perfect sense to head down on the Saturday before so that I could get some good solid acclimatization in.
My plane ride was good. The first leg of the trip to a 6 hr. layover in Houston, Texas was pretty dull and quiet, though I did get some good reading time in. From Houston to San Jose CR I found a few people to talk to. It was fairly easy to pick out other cyclists heading to La Ruta, the lean physique and shaved legs are usually pretty good indicators as long as they aren't accompanied by tight leather pants and/or purple silk shirts (in which case other options present themselves). I met up with Andreas Hestler and a couple of his friends and I met Dan from San Diego. Dan had raced last year but had not made it past checkpoint 3 on the first day. We chatted about how heinous last year was and what we anticipated this year. He was a great guy and I am happy to report that he finished the whole race and achieved a very respectable time. I should add, though, that at the finish party he tells me in passing that he is done with this race (We'll see, that's what they all say).
As soon as the plane landed in Costa Rica we were informed that the regular "movable hallways that you usually walk out of planes on (I don't know what these are called but that is the best description I can think of at the moment) was not functioning so we'll have to get out via a portable stairway in the rain to be picked up by a shuttle bus. The bus was packed and I was the last person allowed on it. I was standing on the doorsteps as the doors shut behind me pretty much leaving my cheek pressed against the glass. I love Costa Rica. There's very rarely a dull moment.
I got to the hotel promptly after getting through the airport lines and was met almost immediately by Gerry (a friend from Calgary who would be one of the 5 Deadgoats who I got to hang around with during the race) who told me where my room was and provided me with the corresponding room card. Sweet. That is service.
On Sunday all the Deadgoats (Erik, Tori, Jack, Gerry and Trish) and I pooled our resources to get a couple of vans to take us to Jaco, a beach town on the Pacific Coast. We piled our bikes into one van and us in the other. Gerry and I got the misfortune of sitting in the seats that faced backwards. This was good for the social aspect of the trip but not for the stomach aspect. Both of us claimed to have strong stomachs to fend off motion sickness induced by the massively undulating and curvy nature of Costa Rican roads (not to mention the driving habits of the motorists themselves make the difficult to take backwards) but both of us admitted to being a bit queazy by lunch.
Lunch was awesome. An amazing view and some amazing "sopanegra" (black bean soup). I love the open concept (a roof with no walls except around the kitchen) that virtually all Costa Rican restaurants seem to have (except, come to think of it, that "den of prostitution" I inadvertently walked into a couple of days before the race but that is another story).
Finally, we got settled into our rooms at Best Western Jaco. Monday and Tuesday were filled with finding nice local places to dine, sharing an "Imperial" or two, swimming in the ocean, and, of course, chatting about our anxieties and anticipations after being reminded of just how steep that first climb really is after the pre-ride.
On Tuesday night we all went to bed a little nervous. Sleeping, but still half conscious of how long and hard of a day we would have when our 3:00 AM wake up call would sound.
What am I?...A Christian, a husband and father, a cyclist/racer, and a finishing carpenter (in that order). I love to live life and realize my potential.
I hope you can find a bit of entertainment in these stories. For me, they are just a good way to electronically document my life but with any luck you'll enjoy these stories of mountain bike races and rides, family and work updates, and other things that manage to catch my interest as the narrative of my life unfolds.
