oh, the places you'll go!
Oh the places you’ll go!
I read that Dr Seuss book like most people do, back when I was graduating from college.
This past weekend I ran past that book’s loopy cartoon cover at an airport en route from a race on Saturday in Durango, Co to another race on Sunday in San Luis Obispo, CA,
And I thought, Oh, the places I’ll go, the things I’ll do, and do without, to ride a mountain bike.
Mark, who says he is the luckiest guy in the world though I do not believe him at times, picked me up at San Francisco International around midnight. I slept in the back of our '89 VW camper bus while he rattled for hours through the night, pinging the tachometer on the first few prime numbers past seventy mph. Home is a former two car garage in Los Osos, a quiet beach town, a few miles from Sunday’s Jeep King of the Mountain Race. Mark woke me up and got me back into bed just as the twinkle of the night’s stars began to dim over Bishop’s Peak.
The alarm began to beep at nine AM. I was back in the bus by ten, and at the venue at Madonna Mountain by quarter past.
We scrambled down some runny eggs in the rococo dining room of the Madonna Inn and I was pushing my short travel bike up the hill by 11:00.
The qualifiers were the day before, and since I had missed them, I was seeded to go up in the first round against fastest qualifier Jill Kintner, the eventual winner. There was only one hour for practice. I flatted so didn’t even get in as many runs as I hoped.
The legs and arms of TV film crews dangled from their perches, the crowd of 2,500 spectators munched on tri tip sandwiches, and the racers milled around at the top of the course while the announcer pitter-pattered during the few minutes before the start of the race. I don’t even remember now lining up for the start.
Everything was just a blur. I was tired and sleepy, but my legs didn’t feel as bad as I expected. Even though I had raced for four hours less than twenty fours earlier, my legs weren’t too sore. It must have been because that race was at such a high elevation, that I never was able to metabolize oxygen well enough to flood my legs with acidic excess. A lot like drinking 3.2 beer all night at a Brigham Young frat party. It’s a hangover, yeah, but it could have been much worse.
"Jill Kintner and I on our first run..."
Photo By Jon Berezay
Jill Kintner was sitting astride her bike just a few feet away. She is incredible at these events. On a downhill course I can corner with the best of them, but on these BMXy, bermy types of courses a rider like Jill can school me.
Before we rolled to the start gate, I had a few seconds to concentrate, “This is a mountain-cross race, a mountain-cross race, 20 seconds, just 20 seconds. Good gate. Get a good gate.”
And 20 seconds later, I was at the bottom of the hill, with another flat tire. I must have clipped a landing.
That’s how mountain cross races go. Just like that.
But at least there are two runs, so Mark and a nice guy from Art’s Cyclery popped in a new tube, while I tried to re-group.
"Relaxing after a brutal weekend..."
On the second run I pulled a great start. At least a great start for me. Going into the first few turns I was even ahead a tiny bit. First there was a big berm turn, and then a jump over a container car. Through the berm turn I railed the good DH line, which was mid-line and fast. That’s what you try to figure out about turns; you think, oh the places I’ll go. Low or high? Inside or out? In the rut or out? But mountain-crossing is not DH’ing. Jill came into the turn low, then high, and shut the door on me. I had no place to go. The race was over even before the big container car jump, and I thought about Jill, “Oh, the places she’ll go; this sport is hers.”
But it was a fun event.
Afterwards there was a big party, but I was so wiped out that we just stopped by the beach and so I could cool off enough to fall asleep in mid afternoon.
I read that Dr Seuss book like most people do, back when I was graduating from college.
This past weekend I ran past that book’s loopy cartoon cover at an airport en route from a race on Saturday in Durango, Co to another race on Sunday in San Luis Obispo, CA,
And I thought, Oh, the places I’ll go, the things I’ll do, and do without, to ride a mountain bike.
Mark, who says he is the luckiest guy in the world though I do not believe him at times, picked me up at San Francisco International around midnight. I slept in the back of our '89 VW camper bus while he rattled for hours through the night, pinging the tachometer on the first few prime numbers past seventy mph. Home is a former two car garage in Los Osos, a quiet beach town, a few miles from Sunday’s Jeep King of the Mountain Race. Mark woke me up and got me back into bed just as the twinkle of the night’s stars began to dim over Bishop’s Peak.
The alarm began to beep at nine AM. I was back in the bus by ten, and at the venue at Madonna Mountain by quarter past.
We scrambled down some runny eggs in the rococo dining room of the Madonna Inn and I was pushing my short travel bike up the hill by 11:00.
The qualifiers were the day before, and since I had missed them, I was seeded to go up in the first round against fastest qualifier Jill Kintner, the eventual winner. There was only one hour for practice. I flatted so didn’t even get in as many runs as I hoped.
The legs and arms of TV film crews dangled from their perches, the crowd of 2,500 spectators munched on tri tip sandwiches, and the racers milled around at the top of the course while the announcer pitter-pattered during the few minutes before the start of the race. I don’t even remember now lining up for the start.
Everything was just a blur. I was tired and sleepy, but my legs didn’t feel as bad as I expected. Even though I had raced for four hours less than twenty fours earlier, my legs weren’t too sore. It must have been because that race was at such a high elevation, that I never was able to metabolize oxygen well enough to flood my legs with acidic excess. A lot like drinking 3.2 beer all night at a Brigham Young frat party. It’s a hangover, yeah, but it could have been much worse.
"Jill Kintner and I on our first run..."
Photo By Jon Berezay
Jill Kintner was sitting astride her bike just a few feet away. She is incredible at these events. On a downhill course I can corner with the best of them, but on these BMXy, bermy types of courses a rider like Jill can school me.
Before we rolled to the start gate, I had a few seconds to concentrate, “This is a mountain-cross race, a mountain-cross race, 20 seconds, just 20 seconds. Good gate. Get a good gate.”
And 20 seconds later, I was at the bottom of the hill, with another flat tire. I must have clipped a landing.
That’s how mountain cross races go. Just like that.
But at least there are two runs, so Mark and a nice guy from Art’s Cyclery popped in a new tube, while I tried to re-group.
"Relaxing after a brutal weekend..."
On the second run I pulled a great start. At least a great start for me. Going into the first few turns I was even ahead a tiny bit. First there was a big berm turn, and then a jump over a container car. Through the berm turn I railed the good DH line, which was mid-line and fast. That’s what you try to figure out about turns; you think, oh the places I’ll go. Low or high? Inside or out? In the rut or out? But mountain-crossing is not DH’ing. Jill came into the turn low, then high, and shut the door on me. I had no place to go. The race was over even before the big container car jump, and I thought about Jill, “Oh, the places she’ll go; this sport is hers.”
But it was a fun event.
Afterwards there was a big party, but I was so wiped out that we just stopped by the beach and so I could cool off enough to fall asleep in mid afternoon.
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4 Comments:
"I slept in the back of our 89’ VW camper bus"
You have an eighty-nine foot Volkswagen Camper bus??? Did Jesse James build it for you on Monster Garage, or something???
wow, you have some attention to detail! You must be a roadie or a triathlete or something. But thanks, I fixed it
Triathlete ... busted.
Nice,Nice Biker.i like...
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