This race. The 40+ non-championship race at the US Cyclocross Nationals. The preparation consisted of six weeks of high intensity interval and road sessions several times a week and a full race schedule that included the tail end of the Cross Crusade series, the State Champs, Psycho Cross and USGP.
The training was paying off with a pair of season-best 13th place finishes in Mens C at the USGP races a few days before. I was locked and loaded.
My race was the third one of the opening day of the 5-day event. I learned at the registration desk that the icy weather had caused a 1 hr delay in starting the first race. Wha’ the effin-eff? This meant that there was no time between the subsequent races to pre-ride the course as the organizers scrambled to get back on schedule.
I was going to have to ride the course blind. Yikes.
But, like Darwin’s finches, one had to adapt or die. At the risk of sounding dramatic, of all the cycling disciplines, cyclocross racing is all about adapting to change. The course, the weather, equipment can change at a moment’s notice before and sometimes during a race. Only the fittest, smartest, most adaptable flourish.
A 30 min trainer warm-up was perfect. Then came the announcement that we were back on schedule and my race would start on time after all.
Unlike the fancy-schmancy ‘championship’ races, we were not required to complete a seeding time trial and call-ups were random. They picked out a bib number randomly and then filled the chutes sequentially from that number.
Number 264 was pinned to my jersey and shoulders. The first number called was 246. Bonza !!!!!!...... I was going to be called up 18th.
Sweety-teeeeety-marghareety !
A second row with about 100 racers behind. Bloody brilliant. I was grinning like the punter that won the meat tray in the chook raffle at the footy club Christmas party. My dream of not being lapped was within reach.
I convinced myself that a quick start and competent navigation of the first LHer at the end of the strait would assure me of a good finish even if passed by a flange of blokes.
Moments later we were orrrrrrfff.
On the third or fourth LH turn I slipped hard down onto my left knee and elbow. I knew that it was going to look ugly because the pain could be felt through the neuro-protective adrenalin curtain.
Almost immediately I had trouble controlling the bike. USGP was almost completely dry and easy to navigate, but here the slop had me all over the place. The back part of the course was an exercise in staying upright and fighting to hold places. Then, following a short steep run-up, we were pointed back towards the center of the course. Now in about 20th place, ML and I had gapped the field behind. A couple of turns later we found ourselves atop a small plateau and, following a 90 degree RH turn, came a sharp drop off which gave the option of two lines.
I likely squeezed the brakes too hard and did not have my considerable weight back far enough. Inevitably, the front wheel lodged in the hole and over I went. The bike got left behind as my head and left shoulder were crunched into the ground.
I believe I bounced.
Returning to feet groggily, I swayed a bit and surveyed the damage doing nothing except existing in a tiny world of confusion. A large flock of cyclists may have swished past.
My race was over.
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| (photos courtesy of Jon Graef) |
After about 5 mins of standing there breathing heavily assuring bystanders that I was OK, I quietly shuffled away with my bike.
Nice way to end the season - frozen, coughing, vomiting, knee, neck and back pain – staring at someone else’s floater in a portable toilet.
I was about as happy as a bastard on Fathers Day.
The Wombat had failed to adapt and had suffered the consequences – evolutionFAIL !
