The first race of the year is always a big question mark. Having spent the duration of the year ticking out low intensity base miles and spending some time in the weight room, I really had no idea how I would react to the first XC race of the year. I had a pretty good feeling that two hours of intensity would be a shock to the system, but the season's got to start somewhere and in this case it was St. Joe state park.
We lined up with what looked like around twenty to twenty five riders and set off on a stretch of pavement before diving into the woods. The last two months have delivered nearly two feet of precipitation, leaving many deep mud holes throughout the course. One such hole was waiting a the entrance to the trail. As racers funneled into the single track, I was in the center of the group and hit this mud hole at full speed, sunk several inches and lost much of my momentum and watched as the entire race funneled around me. Now at the back of the line, I spent the next several miles picking off as many people as possible, all the while deep in the red. After cutting my way through some DRJ and Dogfish guys, I set my sights on my buddy Jeremy and my teammate Cory. I kept them both in sight at about twenty to thirty seconds for much of the first lap. The course was constantly rolling, mostly uphill for the first few miles, and very soft. The spongy trail conditions were absorbing more energy than I had to spare and I was definitely hurting far too early in the race. To add to my discomfort, I had allowed DB to convince me that embrocation was a totally pro move and I had twenty four miles to curse that decision and my legs which had now been set ablaze by a coating of Sportsbalm. Every creek crossing and deep mud hole then became a relief as it cooled my fiery legs.
Towards the end of the first lap, I was caught by the DRJ guy I had passed earlier and he proceeded to sit on my wheel for the rest of the lap, occasionally asking about our gap to the next group. By the time we made it to the pavement stretch at the end of the lap, I was already cooked and he dispatched with me near immediately. Coming through the start/finish area, two of my sport class teammates, who had gone one-two in their race, were cheering me on and I begrudgingly set out for my second lap. At this point, I was alone and had hit the wall a couple times already so I decided to make a good training day out of it and stop worrying about my result. Nearly the entire lap was spent thinking about quitting at lap's end. Curiously, I started passing people. This was not due to my superior speed, but my competitor's inferior luck as many people were having issues with flats, broken chains and detached crankarms. This was encouraging to a degree, at least I was making up places even if it was due to my bicycle's fortitude if not my own. This thought was still way back in my mind behind the pain and thoughts of quitting and the ice cold PBR's waiting for me in DB's car. When I ran out of water two miles before the end of the lap, I was sure I would quit. I had a Camelback and a bottle and it just wasn't enough. However, coming on to the pavement at the end of the second lap, I passed DB pushing his bike with a fresh gash in his fancy mud tires. He offered some encouragement and , somewhat to my horror, his remaining water bottle at the start/finish area. With the water excuse removed, I had no choice but to pick up his bottle and push on for lap three.
Things didn't get any better. I was crawling and continued to spend the first three miles of the lap thinking about quitting. I had caught Jeremy, who informed me that he had dropped out, and kept grinding away with him on my wheel. We hadn't seen each other in a while and since he wasn't racing anymore, he struck up a conversation with me which was somewhat demotivating as he had already quit and I was dying a little inside with each pedal stroke. I was a bit relieved when he revealed that he had quit after one lap and was only just heading out for a second to get some training in. As the miles progressed, Jeremy drifted further from my wheel until I was alone again, with only Editors lyrics to keep me company. For some reason, the line about "your arms and legs are sore" seemed apt and they kept rotating in my head as the mile markers, which I noticed for the first time at mile seven on the second lap, counted down. Around mile six, I saw the Dogfish guy off in the distance behind me and found a little bit left in the tank to gas it one more time and put him out of sight. Once onto the pavement, I felt a beautiful sense of relief. I turned around about halfway through the pavement stretch to see Scott closing in. This was impressive since he had broken his chain on the first lap and has a penchant for quitting races. I dropped it into the eleven and gave whatever I had left to finish in front of him by a scant eight seconds for a total time of two hours and fifty minutes, by far my longest XC race. I ended up seventh in the expert men's class which was far better than my legs indicated it would be. I was well adrift of the leaders, but I hung in there despite an overwhelming desire to quit and ended up with a respectable result. It would seem that there is nowhere to go but up from here and hopefully the next races won't be such a slaughterfest, but this one's in the books. Eighteen hours later, my back and legs still feel like rocks but I feel satisfaction at my resolve to keep pushing despite logic telling me not to. It's a good indication for the season ahead. Until next time...
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