With more and more ski resorts opening their doors during the off-season to mountain bikers lately, downhill racing is becoming increasingly popular, and an ever-growing number of women are being drawn to this exciting and thrilling activity. So if you’re one of those women who have thought to yourself that downhill bike racing sounds fun, but you just don’t know where to start, here is your checklist! First of all, let’s get rid of some of the fallacies about downhill bike racing.
“It’s dangerous.” Yes, it can be dangerous, but so can driving a car or potentially even walking down the sidewalk. You just have to use good judgment, and get properly outfitted – which will be discussed below.
“You have to be inordinately strong to do it.” Women are just as capable of racing downhill as men – while we may not generally be as physically strong, we often have an ability to see lines and finesse our way through some pretty amazing terrain.
“It’s expensive.” Well, it can be, but so can any sporting activity. However, most beginner races, which is probably what you’re looking at doing if this is your first downhill race, can be done on a surprisingly small budget, usually even with your current bike with just a few minor adjustments.
“It’s scary.” Well, yes, it is. But you can make it less scary by following the guidelines below!
Okay, so you’ve gotten past the initial roadblocks and are ready to try your first downhill race. So what do you need to know and do before heading out to the slope for the first time? First of all, for most beginner races, and especially the smaller local ones, your current cross country bike may be plenty suitable with just some minor adjustments as below, especially if it is a full suspension bike (hardtails require a little more skill and are a bit less comfortable to ride downhill, although they are fine on many beginner courses):
Lower your seat. This is very important in order to lower your center of gravity and also to allow you more mobility and confidence over steep terrain. Generally the steeper the terrain, the lower your seat needs to be. Depending on your frame style, you may need to get a second post if you can’t lower your current one far enough. On the really steep stuff, I like to have my seat low enough so that I can sit on the saddle and still touch both feet to the ground.
If you have trouble reaching your brake levers when you have your butt behind your saddle, you may want to bring your levers in (most bike shops can do this for you) or possibly even get a shorter stem for downhilling. Also practice getting behind your seat – it does take some getting used to in order to feel comfortable steering from back there. However, should you get into trouble on a steep section; the safest way to bail is off the back of the bike. NEVER try to dismount by putting your body between the saddle and the stem on a steep descent – that is a very bad place to be, as it can cause the bike to flip over and trap you! While on the topic of brake levers, rotate them so that they are more up, rather than pointing down toward the ground, so your arms can be more in a straight line without an angle to the wrists. In addition, don’t tighten the levers so much on the bar that they will not rotate, as this will allow them to turn rather than break off should you happen to hit them on something during a crash.
Riser bars will help with keeping the front end of the bike up and centering your body weight. For proper downhill bike setup, you should feel almost like you are sliding back toward the back tire when sitting on the bike on level ground, especially if your race course is steep. For the severely steep courses, I actually tip the nose of my saddle up just a bit to ensure that I keep my weight centered back and do not get too far forward!
If you’re using your cross country bike, use fatter tires; these provide more comfort and frequently greater traction for downhill conditions.
All right. Now your bike is set up and ready. But what about you? To ensure your safety and give you more confidence, you’ll need body armor. The standard downhill race armor setup consists of the following items:
Full face helmet. As I have a rather smallish head, I actually use a child’s motocross helmet. The downside is these have no vents so they are hot. However, they are quite solid and extremely protective. Make sure the helmet is not too large. The first few times you put it on, it should actually feel almost tight – the padding inside will compress with wear, and you do not want a full face helmet that slips around on your head. This is potentially dangerous, as a too-large helmet can possibly slip down and obscure your vision. Most of the visors can be adjusted up if needed to avoid interfering with your view. These helmets will often feel bulky and restrictive at first, but you will get used to it. Granted, you can race beginner downhill in a regular cross country helmet, but be aware that you have an exposed face and lower jaw area in that situation, and if you do crash, try to protect those areas.
Goggles or glasses. I prefer goggles as they are generally less likely to break than glasses, and I think provide greater visibility. Ski goggles tend to fog up less than motorcycle goggles as they are designed for slightly lower speeds, more compatible with a bicycle. Be sure to use an antifog agent on them prior to racing. They should fit snugly within the face opening in the helmet.
Gloves. These should be full-fingered, and preferably have rubber type “armor” on the fingers.
Chest protector. I prefer the actual mountain bike version as opposed to the hard plastic motocross types, which leave your sides and flanks exposed. I use one which has hard plastic inserts inside a mesh covering for the spine and chest areas, with a “bellyband” for kidney and abdominal protection. Make sure the back of your chest protector does not interfere with your helmet when you raise your head – you want to be able to look up and see where you are going without hitting the back of your helmet on your spine protector!
Elbow guards. I generally do not use these, as my chest protector has integrated arm guards attached to it. These ideally should have hard plastic or foam type inserts going along the elbow joint and possibly even the forearm as well. Mine also has a hard plastic shoulder cap protector.
Shin and knee guards. These should fasten on the calf area as well as above or at the knee. Otherwise, the knee flap will tend to fall forward if you crash, leaving your knee joint exposed. They should also have hard plastic or foam type inserts at both the knee joint and running along the shin. The calf area may be fully covered, or just have elastic Velcro attachment bands. If you use flat pedals with “teeth”, you may want to consider full calf coverage in case your pedals swing around and hit you from behind; alternatively you can wear long pants to cover your calves.
Pants or shorts and tops. If you use flat “toothed” pedals and have no calf protection with your shin guards, you may want to consider long pants, just in case your pedals swing around to hit you from behind. I use motocross style pants and shorts which are generally a nylon and Kevlar combination. These usually come with replaceable hip pads which Velcro in, but I only use those pads on the really sketchy courses. However, that’s just my vanity since the pads add an extra width to my hips that I prefer not to have! I wear regular padded bike shorts underneath. Pretty much any jersey or top that fits over your body armor is fine! Motocross style jerseys are designed to go over body armor, so work well for this.
Now that you’re outfitted and your bike is ready to go, let’s head up to the start house! Obviously you can ride most downhill courses without having to attend a race, and the above preparations will serve you for that. In fact, many people enjoy riding downhill without ever racing at all. However, should you decide that you want to try your hand at an actual timed event, keep in mind that most downhill races will require you to practice at least one run on the course prior to your race run, and usually you will have multiple opportunities. At the bigger races, you will generally have an actual covered area with an electronic beeper (just like the one at the Tour de France Time Trials); with a timekeeper there to let you know how many beeps they will give you before you start. Usually five beeps and you go on the sixth, but it may vary. Go ahead and get in a big enough gear for the steepness of the start, and take a few long deep breaths to loosen up. Whether or not you have an actual “start house” and electronic timer, you will have a human timer; this person will normally count down your 15 or 10 seconds to start and then tell you when you can go.
Once you’re on course, try not to worry about the rider starting behind you (normally 30-60 second intervals). Trust me, you will hear them if they catch you and need to pass! Take the course as it comes, and try to maintain your speed. Most downhill course obstacles are designed to be easier taken with a little speed, and if you happen to have a longer travel bike, it will handle a lot more than you might think. Keep your weight centered back and your breathing steady – don’t forget to exhale! Should you catch the rider ahead of you, give her warning that you are approaching and let her know on which side you wish to pass. Ideally, try to find a section that is less treacherous for passing, for the safety of both of you. Should someone catch you, try to move as far to the side as possible when it is safe for you to do so and let them by. Don’t forget to pedal as hard as you can on any flat sections rather than coasting – after all, it is a race! Use your brakes as sparingly as you feel comfortable, although you can “squeeze and release” to actually gain some speed on the descents. Remember that pedaling will generally require you to stand in order to get maximum power since your seat is low. Use any berms available for cornering as this will allow you to maintain your speed better, and if you get offline, just go with it rather than panicking. For the really steep and treacherous stuff, you can get way off the back of the bike, and almost “walk” or “scooter” it down, still holding the handlebars, of course. If you happen to crash, gather yourself and your bike, look behind you to make sure the coast is clear, and then jump back onto your bike and get going! The easiest and safest way to do this is the way Shaums March taught me – that is, stand on the side of your bike, holding the bars in riding position, then gently let off the brakes and jump onto the bike, letting your thigh contact the saddle first. Once you cross the finish line, make sure you’re out of the way of other riders coming down behind you before you lay your bike down, and then be prepared for the other women who went ahead of you to swarm you with congratulations and smiles and cheers!
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
EXTINCTION IMMINENT
Am I a dinosaur? I wondered about that on the way home from a bike ride last evening. Nine years ago when I first started biking, I was not too concerned about the fact that I was slower and less aggressive than the other people who rode. After all, I was just a beginner, and still getting the hang of simply the basics. Now, however, it has been nearly nine years since I first stepped across a bicycle, and I am still the person who gets dropped on the group rides, the one who hastily dismounts and walks when confronted with a mammoth log stack or a treacherous looking section of trail. I do not use terms like “gnarly”, “going big”, or “stoked”. I am not concerned about how high I can jump my bike, or even if I can jump my bike. I rarely spend a lot of time attempting repeatedly to ride a sketchy obstacle. I tried racing for several years, but finally discovered that I was the only one who was merely “recreationally racing” rather than being seriously competitive. I never really thought much about my lackadaisical approach to cycling until I began to try riding with other bikers. Suddenly I realized that I did not exactly “fit in” with the mountain biker image. I do not have the same aggression and hardcore approach to riding that real bikers seem to have. Granted, I do go out and ride my bike all year long, even in the coldest depths of winter and the baking heat of summer. But my progression in both speed and technical abilities has been minimal at best, and I am unable to keep up with the progression of the sport itself. Every time I learn a tiny new skill, the sport has already left me behind and “gone bigger”, so that my learning curve seems to have become virtually a straight line, or more realistically, a “flatline”. Thus, the impetus to try new things and advance in my riding is rapidly deteriorating because I never seem to catch up to others in the sport or the sport itself. I love to ride my bicycles, but is it a lost cause to simply ride, with no pressure to do more, or be more, than I am?
So again I have to ask the question, am I a dinosaur? And are there any other dinosaurs out there besides me?
So again I have to ask the question, am I a dinosaur? And are there any other dinosaurs out there besides me?
DROPPED
We went on our routine weekly evening ride tonight - as always, about 15 or so very fast men and me. Again, as always, we entered the trail together, but before 50 yards had elapsed, I was completely alone. I wasn't worried about it, though. I know this trail well. In fact, getting dropped (again) this evening gave me opportunities I never would have had by struggling to keep up with the guys.
For example, getting dropped allowed me to slow way down when the sweet aroma of honeysuckle wafted up my nose. Gave me the chance to really pay attention to the way my bike danced through the rock gardens, floated over wet tangles of roots. Allowed me to settle into my own personal rhythm, one with my bike, as I flew down hills, and then rode purposefully back up the climbs. I listened to the sound of my own breathing, my heart beating, felt my muscles working, and marveled at the capabilities of the human body. Getting dropped enabled me to play chase with a muskrat who taunted me from the side of the trail, then darted out in front. I stood up and gave chase briefly before he ducked back into the shrubs; I smiled as I passed, while a squirrel chattered excitedly from an overhanging branch. I paid attention to and cherished everything about riding - the smell of the dirt, the rustling leaves, the creaking of the trees in the wind. I was no longer just riding - I was living, and it was glorious, painful, thrilling, overwhelming.
I realized tonight that the racing, the competition, the trying to keep up with the fast folks, none of that really matters. What matters, to me anyway, is that I am privileged to be able to ride, maybe not skillfully, maybe not fast, but I can ride, and that is what gives life to my soul.
So why do YOU ride?
For example, getting dropped allowed me to slow way down when the sweet aroma of honeysuckle wafted up my nose. Gave me the chance to really pay attention to the way my bike danced through the rock gardens, floated over wet tangles of roots. Allowed me to settle into my own personal rhythm, one with my bike, as I flew down hills, and then rode purposefully back up the climbs. I listened to the sound of my own breathing, my heart beating, felt my muscles working, and marveled at the capabilities of the human body. Getting dropped enabled me to play chase with a muskrat who taunted me from the side of the trail, then darted out in front. I stood up and gave chase briefly before he ducked back into the shrubs; I smiled as I passed, while a squirrel chattered excitedly from an overhanging branch. I paid attention to and cherished everything about riding - the smell of the dirt, the rustling leaves, the creaking of the trees in the wind. I was no longer just riding - I was living, and it was glorious, painful, thrilling, overwhelming.
I realized tonight that the racing, the competition, the trying to keep up with the fast folks, none of that really matters. What matters, to me anyway, is that I am privileged to be able to ride, maybe not skillfully, maybe not fast, but I can ride, and that is what gives life to my soul.
So why do YOU ride?
NOT JUST COMPETITION
When most folks hear the word "race", the first thing that comes to mind is cutthroat competition, and the concept that it's all about winning. Well, the other weekend at the NORBA (National Off-Road Mountain Bike Association) Nationals at Snowshoe, West Virginia, the true concept of what downhill racing means to me became very, very clear. And surprisingly enough, it honestly had nothing to do with winning, or even competing really. I had entered the Expert Women Downhill category for women age 40-44, for my first time racing as an Expert. As is the procedure, I began the week with some practice runs. On the first one, I was accompanied by Shaums March, a pro racer from the west coast who holds clinics at many National events. I had signed up for his Snowshoe clinic in an effort to work on my crippling issues with lack of confidence and extreme fear of trail obstacles (a death-knoll when trying to successfully compete at downhill racing). As it turned out, I was the sole participant in the clinic, so had a full 3.5 hours of his time all to myself. After working on basic skills such as cornering, braking, bike handling, etc., up in the parking lot area, we proceeded to the downhill course, where he alternately led and followed, as I fumbled my way down the trail, with him encouraging and advising me of the best lines to follow. At many points, I became frozen with fear at the steepness, massive rocks and excessively slick mud coating the trail. Luckily, Shaums is very patient, and when I would stand at a section of trail, too paralyzed with fear to move, he would calmly hold my bike for me, while gently urging me to just "jump on your bike and roll". At one point, I was so frightened on a very steep, off-camber turn that I simply could not will myself to ride. He incredibly walked up behind me, held onto the back of my bike shorts while I got on the bike, then proceeded to run down the trail behind me while I rode, all the while still holding onto my shorts so as not to let me fall. Needless to say, the 2.5 mile course took us nearly an hour and a half to ride, but with his encouragement, I was able to ride sections that I had never before even dared to consider a rideable option, with multiple small layover crashes, but only one real, flipping over the bars, landing flat on the ground superman style, then into a tree, but "yeah, I'm okay, thank goodness for body armor" wreck.
The next day was a slightly different story. This time, during my practice session, I had gotten perhaps halfway down the course when the skies opened up and a thunderstorm burst onto the scene. Soaked by the chilling rain, I somehow managed to slip and slide my way down the mountain. However, due to the lightning, the ski lifts were stopped and we had to wait for the shuttle bus. When it finally arrived, the dozen or more of us stuck at the bottom of the slope crammed our mud-encrusted armor-clad bodies into the bus, with our bikes on the trailer behind, and we started back up the mountain. Unfortunately, barely half a mile up the road, the bus driver suddenly let out a scream/curse and the bus screeched to a halt. Apparently the water heater had burst and sprayed the front interior of the bus with hot antifreeze, luckily with no injuries to either the driver or the passengers. It was at this point that I realized there was another woman on the bus, and since only one course is open for practice at any given time, there was a good chance that she might be in my class! As it turns out, she was. Throughout this day, I learned that there were several women in the Beginner, Sport, and older Expert (over 40 women, and we race on the Sport course) classes. I met and talked with several of them, and we shared our fears and concerns over such a steep, muddy, rocky course.
By the time race day arrived, I was a nervous wreck, fearful of the course, the competition, the other women, etc. But as my start time drew near, I learned what it is that truly drives me to go to the races. It isn't winning, obviously, since I haven't had that privilege very many times during my race "career". But there is a camaraderie amongst the downhill racers that is akin to that of a family. While we waited for our turns to go, both the other women in my class and I chatted like old friends, even though we had only recently met, and although we certainly each would have liked to win, the "good luck" that we wished each other was genuine. Both Theresa and Shari were sent on their runs, and finally it was my turn. As I waited anxiously in the start house for the beeps to begin, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and a soft female voice reminding me to "just breathe and relax - you're gonna be fine". It was yet another downhiller, Kim, a younger Expert friend of mine. And I thought to myself, where else can you find this kind of support and encouragement? Here was someone who had just finished her own race run and was exhausted, and yet she took the time to come find me and provide that last minute support that meant so much to me. And even as I rode down the course, I heard yet another feminine voice yelling out encouraging words - this time it was my teammate, Leigh, who races pro, and as it turns out she was videotaping me and had walked all the way through the course to a section where she knew I felt confident and strong, so as to make a good video for me.
But the best reminder of why I race came after I crossed the finish line. Yes, I was the slowest woman on my course at 16 minutes, but you would have thought I was Lance Armstrong winning the Tour, the way the women all ran up to congratulate me on getting through it, with hugs and cheers. And this happened for every single woman who crossed the line. There is some kind of bonding that occurs when you race downhill; you've all done much more than you thought you could. You have survived something scary, you've reached deep down inside and faced your fears; and you've all shared the experience somehow. Downhill racing isn't just about who is faster - the medals are an aside. It's a shared experience, a camaraderie, a bond that makes you a family.
The next day was a slightly different story. This time, during my practice session, I had gotten perhaps halfway down the course when the skies opened up and a thunderstorm burst onto the scene. Soaked by the chilling rain, I somehow managed to slip and slide my way down the mountain. However, due to the lightning, the ski lifts were stopped and we had to wait for the shuttle bus. When it finally arrived, the dozen or more of us stuck at the bottom of the slope crammed our mud-encrusted armor-clad bodies into the bus, with our bikes on the trailer behind, and we started back up the mountain. Unfortunately, barely half a mile up the road, the bus driver suddenly let out a scream/curse and the bus screeched to a halt. Apparently the water heater had burst and sprayed the front interior of the bus with hot antifreeze, luckily with no injuries to either the driver or the passengers. It was at this point that I realized there was another woman on the bus, and since only one course is open for practice at any given time, there was a good chance that she might be in my class! As it turns out, she was. Throughout this day, I learned that there were several women in the Beginner, Sport, and older Expert (over 40 women, and we race on the Sport course) classes. I met and talked with several of them, and we shared our fears and concerns over such a steep, muddy, rocky course.
By the time race day arrived, I was a nervous wreck, fearful of the course, the competition, the other women, etc. But as my start time drew near, I learned what it is that truly drives me to go to the races. It isn't winning, obviously, since I haven't had that privilege very many times during my race "career". But there is a camaraderie amongst the downhill racers that is akin to that of a family. While we waited for our turns to go, both the other women in my class and I chatted like old friends, even though we had only recently met, and although we certainly each would have liked to win, the "good luck" that we wished each other was genuine. Both Theresa and Shari were sent on their runs, and finally it was my turn. As I waited anxiously in the start house for the beeps to begin, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and a soft female voice reminding me to "just breathe and relax - you're gonna be fine". It was yet another downhiller, Kim, a younger Expert friend of mine. And I thought to myself, where else can you find this kind of support and encouragement? Here was someone who had just finished her own race run and was exhausted, and yet she took the time to come find me and provide that last minute support that meant so much to me. And even as I rode down the course, I heard yet another feminine voice yelling out encouraging words - this time it was my teammate, Leigh, who races pro, and as it turns out she was videotaping me and had walked all the way through the course to a section where she knew I felt confident and strong, so as to make a good video for me.
But the best reminder of why I race came after I crossed the finish line. Yes, I was the slowest woman on my course at 16 minutes, but you would have thought I was Lance Armstrong winning the Tour, the way the women all ran up to congratulate me on getting through it, with hugs and cheers. And this happened for every single woman who crossed the line. There is some kind of bonding that occurs when you race downhill; you've all done much more than you thought you could. You have survived something scary, you've reached deep down inside and faced your fears; and you've all shared the experience somehow. Downhill racing isn't just about who is faster - the medals are an aside. It's a shared experience, a camaraderie, a bond that makes you a family.
HUG A BEGINNER
While we all had to start somewhere, I think that along the way, many of us who mountain bike have forgotten what it was like to be a beginner. Remember when a fallen branch across the trail the size of a #2 pencil caused that huge lump in your throat? Or when tiny smooth creek crossings and pebble-sized rock gardens looked like the jaws of death? On the other hand, remember when riding was all about just getting outside and feeling like a kid again, with no worries about whether or not you were keeping your heart rate pegged or who could drop everyone else on the ride?
Maybe it's just because, having started riding so late in life, my memories of those very first timid rides are still vividly fresh, but I love riding with beginners. I love still BEING a beginner, even after nearly 8 years. There is nothing so rewarding as taking someone out on their very first mountain bike ride, watching them transform from a hesitant, wobbly first-timer to that exhilarated, reborn child with a smile that encompasses three time zones as they emerge victorious from the trail, riding confidently over that fallen branch. Their excitement is so contagious. If you haven't done so, I urge you to go on a ride with a newbie. Let them lead. Ride at their pace, and look at the trail through their eyes. Let yourself become a beginner once more, and fall in love with mountain biking all over again.
Maybe it's just because, having started riding so late in life, my memories of those very first timid rides are still vividly fresh, but I love riding with beginners. I love still BEING a beginner, even after nearly 8 years. There is nothing so rewarding as taking someone out on their very first mountain bike ride, watching them transform from a hesitant, wobbly first-timer to that exhilarated, reborn child with a smile that encompasses three time zones as they emerge victorious from the trail, riding confidently over that fallen branch. Their excitement is so contagious. If you haven't done so, I urge you to go on a ride with a newbie. Let them lead. Ride at their pace, and look at the trail through their eyes. Let yourself become a beginner once more, and fall in love with mountain biking all over again.
CUT YOUR LOSSES
“Cut your losses.” It’s a saying we use when we have already invested too much into a losing venture, and decide to quit before losing more. This phrase came to me on an organized mountain bike ride the other day, as I once again fell off the back of the “slower intermediate” group. I started to think I had already invested far too much (9 years to be exact) into an activity that was not, and apparently was not ever going to be, my forte.
But what I couldn’t quite figure out was why, after 9 years of stagnating at generally the beginner skill level, I was still out there trying. Years ago when I tried my hand at windsurfing, it only took a few failed attempts before I realized that wasn’t my “thing”. Same thing with several other activities – it didn’t take long to realize I wasn’t a runner, a skier, or a swimmer. I’ve generally not ever really been the athletic type, most often preferring the solitude of reading, writing, meditation, dance, etc.
So why was I here, floundering on this beginner level trail, while others who had been riding a fraction of the years I had were flying effortlessly past me as I struggled helplessly on the unforgiving roots and tight turns? Why have I found it so difficult to abandon attempts at this sport like I have so many others? What makes mountain biking different?
I pondered this as I dismounted time and time again when I was unable to maintain control of my bike along the twisty, narrow trail. Perhaps it was because I had already invested so many years in the sport? No, that couldn’t be it. I gave up horseback riding after over 30 years, and I was far better at horsemanship than I am at bike handling.
Suddenly my mind flashed back to something a fellow competitor had told me at a 24 hour race a couple of years ago. As he watched me ride past his campsite at around 5:30 in the morning when the sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, the expression on my face was one of pure joy, as if this was more of a “religious experience” than a race. He said that I appeared to be completely absorbed in the moment, seemingly unaware of any pain or exhaustion that I must have felt at that time, after riding straight for nearly 17 hours.
Then it occurred to me that most of the darkest, loneliest times I’ve experienced on my bike have actually been when I was riding in groups. I realized that I am not fast or technically skilled, and at 42 years old, in all likelihood never will be. I don’t really have much interest in seeing how many trail obstacles I can conquer, or how fast I can ride.
Truthfully I don’t fit the mold of the average mountain biker at all. I’ve never been much of a risk taker, and don’t have a very strong competitive drive. While mountain biking seems to be a social outlet for many riders, for me it is more a means of facilitating “moving meditation”, whereby I can step outside myself and delve more deeply into my inner self at the same time. When I ride alone, I’m not the slow rider, or the scared rider, or the rider who gets dropped. On solitary rides, I am the fast rider, the bold rider, and the rider leading the pack.
However, even all that does not totally explain the siren’s call this sport has for me. Generally people are drawn to activities where they excel. Yet here I am, still struggling, still falling off the back of group rides, still afraid to try technical trail sections or obstacles, and despite all this, I continue to head out to the trail with my bike. Why? I honestly don’t know. Perhaps I’ll go for a solo ride and think it over…
But what I couldn’t quite figure out was why, after 9 years of stagnating at generally the beginner skill level, I was still out there trying. Years ago when I tried my hand at windsurfing, it only took a few failed attempts before I realized that wasn’t my “thing”. Same thing with several other activities – it didn’t take long to realize I wasn’t a runner, a skier, or a swimmer. I’ve generally not ever really been the athletic type, most often preferring the solitude of reading, writing, meditation, dance, etc.
So why was I here, floundering on this beginner level trail, while others who had been riding a fraction of the years I had were flying effortlessly past me as I struggled helplessly on the unforgiving roots and tight turns? Why have I found it so difficult to abandon attempts at this sport like I have so many others? What makes mountain biking different?
I pondered this as I dismounted time and time again when I was unable to maintain control of my bike along the twisty, narrow trail. Perhaps it was because I had already invested so many years in the sport? No, that couldn’t be it. I gave up horseback riding after over 30 years, and I was far better at horsemanship than I am at bike handling.
Suddenly my mind flashed back to something a fellow competitor had told me at a 24 hour race a couple of years ago. As he watched me ride past his campsite at around 5:30 in the morning when the sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, the expression on my face was one of pure joy, as if this was more of a “religious experience” than a race. He said that I appeared to be completely absorbed in the moment, seemingly unaware of any pain or exhaustion that I must have felt at that time, after riding straight for nearly 17 hours.
Then it occurred to me that most of the darkest, loneliest times I’ve experienced on my bike have actually been when I was riding in groups. I realized that I am not fast or technically skilled, and at 42 years old, in all likelihood never will be. I don’t really have much interest in seeing how many trail obstacles I can conquer, or how fast I can ride.
Truthfully I don’t fit the mold of the average mountain biker at all. I’ve never been much of a risk taker, and don’t have a very strong competitive drive. While mountain biking seems to be a social outlet for many riders, for me it is more a means of facilitating “moving meditation”, whereby I can step outside myself and delve more deeply into my inner self at the same time. When I ride alone, I’m not the slow rider, or the scared rider, or the rider who gets dropped. On solitary rides, I am the fast rider, the bold rider, and the rider leading the pack.
However, even all that does not totally explain the siren’s call this sport has for me. Generally people are drawn to activities where they excel. Yet here I am, still struggling, still falling off the back of group rides, still afraid to try technical trail sections or obstacles, and despite all this, I continue to head out to the trail with my bike. Why? I honestly don’t know. Perhaps I’ll go for a solo ride and think it over…
THE LITTLE THINGS
Okay, so I set out to start the 2004 bike season by competing solo at the 2nd Annual Monkey Chucker 24 hour race near Greenville. The weather looked good to start – even though they were forecasting thunderstorms Saturday afternoon – and I did my warmup stretches, got well hydrated, dressed, and ready to go. During this time, I had the pleasure of meeting another solo competitor – a young man named Wes who was friends with a long time competitor and friend of mine, Matt. Wes had run support for Matt at this event last year, and had decided to try his hand at solo racing this time around. He and I chatted for a while, and discovered that we both had the same race goal this time – to complete 12 laps, so we wished each other well, and prepared for the start.
The first two laps went off as usual – in other words, with me at the back of the field, just cruising along at my normal grandma slow speed. Being the only woman in a field of 14 solo entries, I wasn’t too terribly concerned about being behind. I figured I would just do my best, and even though I doubted I could ride faster than any of the men, I hoped I could perhaps outlast some of them. By my third lap in the mid afternoon, the sky really seemed to be getting dark. I thought I heard a clap of thunder, then one solitary raindrop kissed my cheek. The next thing I knew, I was being pelted by windswept rain which immediately drenched me, all the way from my snow leopard helmet cover down to my waterproof cycling boots – which I had fortunately changed into after my first lap because they were so much more comfortable than the shoes I had started out in. I still had about three more miles to go on this nine plus mile lap when the thunderstorm started, so by the time I passed the timer’s tent I must have looked like a drowned rat. Danny, the timer, informed me that they had decided to call the race for an hour to let the lightning and thunder pass, so I headed off to the trailer to change into dry clothes and rest a bit. This race was different for me, because this time my husband, Steve, who normally does support for me, was also racing solo. This meant that I would basically be on my own, to do my own support – and I have to admit that that definitely makes things more difficult.
During this rain delay, lunch provided by the very generous trail landowner, showed up. This was voraciously devoured by the racers, including myself, and was a welcome change from the variety of gels and sports drinks I had been sustaining myself on throughout the afternoon.
So anyway, after the hour wait, the skies again cleared and the race resumed. On my fourth lap, I was greeted by a very different trail than the one I had become used to. The normally quick drying, never slippery roots were now rather glassy and unfamiliar as it continued to drizzle on and off so that they continued to stay wet, and the damp sand was clinging tenaciously to every part of my drivetrain. I struggled through the trail, but found that I was slowing down even more than my usual snail’s pace, and began to get a little worried. However, after arriving back at my pit area and changing again into clean dry clothes – which I continued to do after every lap – and grabbing a bite to eat, I headed back out to tackle the slippery roots and logs.
Dusk was falling when I again returned to my pit area, so I quickly attached my lights to my bike and helmet. Normally at home, since I have very poor night vision, I run two lights on high when I ride. This time, however, since Steve would be using his extra lights, and I would have to allow time to recharge my own, I was reduced to using one light at a time, on low. This greatly hampered my ability to navigate the increasingly slippery roots as night fell and dew began to cover the ground.
Also, as evening fell, I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my low to mid back which nearly prevented me from moving my spine at all. Luckily, Wes had an extra hot pack which he very kindly gave me to wear on my back. This is probably what enabled me to even finish the race at all. I was still in a great deal of pain, but the moist heat from the pad soothed the muscle spasms enough for me to at least sit on the bike.
By midnight, I was getting quite frustrated with my inability to see, the pain and numbness in my hands, the back spasms, and the slipperiness of the trail, and had gotten very discouraged at having to walk so much of a course that I can usually ride easily. Steve and Wes accompanied me on a late night lap, but I felt even worse by the fact that they had to wait so much for me while I walked sections that in the daytime I could ride with no trouble at all. I was feeling like everyone was passing me a million times on the same lap!
At this point, Steve apparently got his second wind, and the final devastating blow to me came when I was agonizingly preparing to go out for another wee-hours lap and he came bee-bopping in, excitedly chattering about how great he felt. This is the last thing you want to hear when you are suffering in hell. Even though I love him dearly and he is my soulmate, I could have ripped his throat open at that point….
But, I dragged my weary self out to my bike again and went out once more. On this lap, despite feeling worse than I ever imagined I could and still ride, one of those little things that makes all the difference happened. As I was struggling along the back section of the trail, Carol came up behind me, and told me that she had a new respect for me, as she had only done half as many laps as I had at that point, and was “just dead”. That little compliment, which she probably doesn’t even remember now, breathed new life into me, and I perked up and scurried on down the trail. On arriving back at the pit area at around 3 a.m., I decided to take a break until 4:30 in order to ensure that my next lap would be the “dawn lap” – the lap of rejuvenation and rebirth. It was so wonderful to be out on the trail and see the sun rise – that instant of clicking off the night light has to be the most definitive, authoritative, I CAN DO THIS moment of the entire race.
I continued to ride, taking short breaks as needed to try and rest my hands and back, until roughly 9 a.m. At this point, Wes and I talked about how we sadly realized we probably were not going to achieve our 12 lap goal. He had crashed badly during the night and injured his back as well. We decided at this point to go back out at around 10:30, and just get 1 more lap, which would put us each at 10 laps. Now granted, I seriously doubt I could have forced myself to get back out and do an extra lap, which would have put me ahead of him with 11. But even if I could have – which I doubt I could – I felt it would break a code of honor between us. After all, it was Wes who had enabled me to finish the race at all by giving me the heating pad for my back. So I held true to my word, as did he, and we both headed back out on the trail at 10:30 to finish 1 more lap, each completing 10, with him several minutes in front of me.
All told, I believe I wound up in 10th place overall for the solos. But a big surprise came during the awards ceremony when I was awarded a huge trophy for being the first place solo female (a bittersweet victory since I was also the only solo female). All along, I had been told that no separation would be made based on gender. However, Andrew and Danny, the race promoters, told me later that they felt it was only appropriate to recognize the top female solo, and that they had planned to give this trophy all along, but wanted it to be a surprise – which it definitely was!
But the biggest surprise to me was how it was the little things that kept me going – Wes giving me a heating pad, Carol’s compliment, every rider who passed me and said “good job” or “keep it up”, and the folks in the timing tent with their smiling faces and encouraging words all night long – those things really made the difference for me, and reminded me to never discount or take for granted the smallest things, because no generous act or kind word is ever wasted.
The first two laps went off as usual – in other words, with me at the back of the field, just cruising along at my normal grandma slow speed. Being the only woman in a field of 14 solo entries, I wasn’t too terribly concerned about being behind. I figured I would just do my best, and even though I doubted I could ride faster than any of the men, I hoped I could perhaps outlast some of them. By my third lap in the mid afternoon, the sky really seemed to be getting dark. I thought I heard a clap of thunder, then one solitary raindrop kissed my cheek. The next thing I knew, I was being pelted by windswept rain which immediately drenched me, all the way from my snow leopard helmet cover down to my waterproof cycling boots – which I had fortunately changed into after my first lap because they were so much more comfortable than the shoes I had started out in. I still had about three more miles to go on this nine plus mile lap when the thunderstorm started, so by the time I passed the timer’s tent I must have looked like a drowned rat. Danny, the timer, informed me that they had decided to call the race for an hour to let the lightning and thunder pass, so I headed off to the trailer to change into dry clothes and rest a bit. This race was different for me, because this time my husband, Steve, who normally does support for me, was also racing solo. This meant that I would basically be on my own, to do my own support – and I have to admit that that definitely makes things more difficult.
During this rain delay, lunch provided by the very generous trail landowner, showed up. This was voraciously devoured by the racers, including myself, and was a welcome change from the variety of gels and sports drinks I had been sustaining myself on throughout the afternoon.
So anyway, after the hour wait, the skies again cleared and the race resumed. On my fourth lap, I was greeted by a very different trail than the one I had become used to. The normally quick drying, never slippery roots were now rather glassy and unfamiliar as it continued to drizzle on and off so that they continued to stay wet, and the damp sand was clinging tenaciously to every part of my drivetrain. I struggled through the trail, but found that I was slowing down even more than my usual snail’s pace, and began to get a little worried. However, after arriving back at my pit area and changing again into clean dry clothes – which I continued to do after every lap – and grabbing a bite to eat, I headed back out to tackle the slippery roots and logs.
Dusk was falling when I again returned to my pit area, so I quickly attached my lights to my bike and helmet. Normally at home, since I have very poor night vision, I run two lights on high when I ride. This time, however, since Steve would be using his extra lights, and I would have to allow time to recharge my own, I was reduced to using one light at a time, on low. This greatly hampered my ability to navigate the increasingly slippery roots as night fell and dew began to cover the ground.
Also, as evening fell, I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my low to mid back which nearly prevented me from moving my spine at all. Luckily, Wes had an extra hot pack which he very kindly gave me to wear on my back. This is probably what enabled me to even finish the race at all. I was still in a great deal of pain, but the moist heat from the pad soothed the muscle spasms enough for me to at least sit on the bike.
By midnight, I was getting quite frustrated with my inability to see, the pain and numbness in my hands, the back spasms, and the slipperiness of the trail, and had gotten very discouraged at having to walk so much of a course that I can usually ride easily. Steve and Wes accompanied me on a late night lap, but I felt even worse by the fact that they had to wait so much for me while I walked sections that in the daytime I could ride with no trouble at all. I was feeling like everyone was passing me a million times on the same lap!
At this point, Steve apparently got his second wind, and the final devastating blow to me came when I was agonizingly preparing to go out for another wee-hours lap and he came bee-bopping in, excitedly chattering about how great he felt. This is the last thing you want to hear when you are suffering in hell. Even though I love him dearly and he is my soulmate, I could have ripped his throat open at that point….
But, I dragged my weary self out to my bike again and went out once more. On this lap, despite feeling worse than I ever imagined I could and still ride, one of those little things that makes all the difference happened. As I was struggling along the back section of the trail, Carol came up behind me, and told me that she had a new respect for me, as she had only done half as many laps as I had at that point, and was “just dead”. That little compliment, which she probably doesn’t even remember now, breathed new life into me, and I perked up and scurried on down the trail. On arriving back at the pit area at around 3 a.m., I decided to take a break until 4:30 in order to ensure that my next lap would be the “dawn lap” – the lap of rejuvenation and rebirth. It was so wonderful to be out on the trail and see the sun rise – that instant of clicking off the night light has to be the most definitive, authoritative, I CAN DO THIS moment of the entire race.
I continued to ride, taking short breaks as needed to try and rest my hands and back, until roughly 9 a.m. At this point, Wes and I talked about how we sadly realized we probably were not going to achieve our 12 lap goal. He had crashed badly during the night and injured his back as well. We decided at this point to go back out at around 10:30, and just get 1 more lap, which would put us each at 10 laps. Now granted, I seriously doubt I could have forced myself to get back out and do an extra lap, which would have put me ahead of him with 11. But even if I could have – which I doubt I could – I felt it would break a code of honor between us. After all, it was Wes who had enabled me to finish the race at all by giving me the heating pad for my back. So I held true to my word, as did he, and we both headed back out on the trail at 10:30 to finish 1 more lap, each completing 10, with him several minutes in front of me.
All told, I believe I wound up in 10th place overall for the solos. But a big surprise came during the awards ceremony when I was awarded a huge trophy for being the first place solo female (a bittersweet victory since I was also the only solo female). All along, I had been told that no separation would be made based on gender. However, Andrew and Danny, the race promoters, told me later that they felt it was only appropriate to recognize the top female solo, and that they had planned to give this trophy all along, but wanted it to be a surprise – which it definitely was!
But the biggest surprise to me was how it was the little things that kept me going – Wes giving me a heating pad, Carol’s compliment, every rider who passed me and said “good job” or “keep it up”, and the folks in the timing tent with their smiling faces and encouraging words all night long – those things really made the difference for me, and reminded me to never discount or take for granted the smallest things, because no generous act or kind word is ever wasted.
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