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RR: What does not kill us...
So I've been off-road exactly once since my ill-fated outing with Fagerlin & Co. on South Mountain in January, and that was a quick romp at Branford Supply Ponds in Connecticut, which is not much of a challenge. This is mostly due to weeks of continuously cold, rainy weather. I've been putting good miles in on the fix, though, and I feel pretty strong. The wife and I have decided we want to enter the XC race at the Raccoon Rally in Allegany State Park next month: http://www.wnymba.org/portal.php?h=xc I haven't raced in five years. I would really like to run in Sport class, just because Beginner is generally too short to require much strategy. If you don't get the hole shot, you lose. Yawn. I think of these things, feeling pretty cocky, as I quaff a Foster's at the trailhead and prep my gear. The Fisher needs work. The drivetrain is for ****, the cables are worn the nubs on the tires are rounded. But I've got parts on order from Speedgoat, and I figure I'll just run the Sport loop and see how I like it. I've been skiing these trails all winter, so it's going to be fun to explore the same terrain on a bike. The ride starts with an easy spin onto Patterson, and settles into a nice middle-ring climb. I'm breathing a little hard, but everything is cool. A mile or so in is the intersection where the Sport loop turns onto Snowsnake, and I start the real climbing at a good clip. Not for long. Snowsnake is a quagmire. There really isn't a trail per se, just a doubletrack-wide swath of soft, loamy grass that sucks at my rear wheel, slowing me mercilessly as the trail steepens. I evidently should have gone a little lighter on those Sierra Nevadas last night. My head starts to hurt, and I am breaking out in a clammy sweat. The leaves aren't out on the trees yet, and the sun feels insanely hot for a 65-degree day. I am breathing way too hard, my heart is beating madly. I roll to a humiliating stop and bend over the handlebars, heart racing. I straighten, clip in, and force the pedals to turn. Five turns of the crank and I'm stopped again. I push the bike. I am glad I am by myself. I look up and see my brothers the crows in the bare trees overhead, and I begin to sense that they are somewhat indiscreetly discussing who gets the good parts once I collapse and die. Traitors. I push the bike some more. The trail flattens out and I pedal for a bit, but then it turns up again and I am off, trudging, earthbound. This sucks. I look at my odometer. I've come two miles. The Sport course is 25. I am so ****ed. The simple five mile, thousand-foot climb takes me more than an hour, a substantial fraction of that on foot. I suffer the whole way. I think about what it is going to be like riding in Santa Fe and Aspen this summer. This is puppy chow. I am old and slow and corrupt. I have no self-discipline. I am soft. At the summit, I spin onto the twisty side loops: Swee****er, Christian Hollow, Leonard Run. Nothing technical, but swoopy and fun. I notice that the headset on the Fisher is loose, but I figure it's better just to live with it and fix it at home rather than try a field repair. At the end of Leonard Run, I stop and eat two litte packs of peanut M&Ms we have left over from Halloween. I have rarely tasted anything better in my life. Then it's on to Ridge run, downhill fast to the car. A 17 mile loop. I bag the second lap. Next time. Sigh. CC |
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