An Eventful Offseason

               The fabled offseason is theoretically the time of year when everyone takes a few weeks (or longer) break from repeatedly turning their legs into mush day in and day out. People catch up on tasks put on the backburner from months earlier, spend time with friends and family instead of their two wheeled companion, and purposely lose the necessary fitness in order to recharge the batteries to do it all over again next year. For true subscribers, this means no riding whatsoever. Even simply a leisure ride to the store brings back painful memories of past interval sessions that are to be avoided at all costs. For others, bikes are still very present in the offseason, but there’s none of the intensity which existed throughout the year. Ride durations are minimized, different disciplines are explored, and the coffee ride becomes much more common. In any case, the offseason is an essential part of any training schedule and is vital to quality performances in the future. 

               For most, this time of the season involves putting the legs up, having that extra bowl of ice cream, and not going outside in the freezing rain/snow to suffer into an ever-present headwind. My ‘offseason’ was a bit unorthodox this year... Rather than a relaxing time lounging on the couch, I spent two days living in airports and cramped seats, then haphazardly trying to get my life back in order and out of two boxes. Granted the whole travel thing forced me off the bike for some time, and when there’s a twelve-hour time difference, everything is a bit screwed up. It’s not exactly easy to get up and go bury myself when my internal body clock is telling me “bedtime” during early afternoon, and it’s quite dark at three in the morning when I’m fired up and ready to go. Luckily, I quickly adjusted to the difference by drinking way too much caffeine throughout the day and forcing sleep during the night (which was sometimes made even harder from the aforementioned caffeine). But as every true cycling addict can relate, by the time two easy-pedal weeks in New Zealand wound down, I had already begun to go a touch crazy from lack of breathing hard and was keen to get back to putting the legs to good use. 

               Like any good mountain biker, one of the first things I did to settle into my new home was buy a road bike. I mean, training on the road is necessary to pedal fast on dirt… and I’m not going to wear down my only set of tires on asphalt, right? Besides, commuting to work would be way easier; runs to the grocery store would be quicker, and the ice cream wouldn’t melt. These were some of the excuses I gave myself to legitimize the purchase of a stupidly light road bike. All said and done, the real reason was probably that I wanted to go for the KOM on the beyond-category climb on my doorstep. 

The Ruapehu mountain road winds its way for about 20 kilometers (I’ve had to convert… you’re going to suffer with me) through Tongariro National Park and finishes at the carpark for Turoa ski resort. Someone told me it had a similar profile to Alpe d’Huez, and I’m not really going to check the accuracy of this statement because the thought gives me a few extra watts when things get steep. And do they ever get steep. Clocking out with a total of 1000 meters (ha more metric; reach for your converters) from bottom to top, and 500 of those happen within the last 5 kms. Remember that it’s 20 total kilometers… and half the vertical occurs at the very top. Needless to say it gets hard, especially after 40 previous minutes of threshold effort. 

               Now would be a good time to point out how my shiny new road bike has road gearing. This means that it’s meant to go fast on flat ground with big chainrings in the front, and a compact cassette in the rear. Without going into the boring technical aspects of gear ratios, here’s the overarching point: when things get steep, pedaling becomes REALLY hard. Luckily, I’ve got backyard access to +15% grades and a general propensity to repeated suffering. 

Mt. Ruapehu from the Turoa carpark

               My first attempt at the Ruapehu mountain road basically ended with me almost giving up and haphazardly swerving by the time I reached the top. From then it was only a terrifyingly fast descent with semi-frozen toes and fingers. (I had forgotten things usually get cold at 2000 meters above sea level.) Since then I’ve struggled up the steep gradients again and again, continually forgetting the pain which awaits me. Even after the short time I’ve been here, this climb and mountain have found a special place in my heart; not only because it has the ability to me feel incredibly small, but also because it gives me the opportunity to push myself and suffer for the process of improvement. 

              

               Prior to flying over the Pacific, naturally I scanned the internet for races around the North Island. Without really thinking about the timing or details of the events, I put as many down on the calendar as I could find. Just about the first thing that comes up when you Google ‘bike event north island New Zealand is the Taupo Cycling Challenge. This one of a kind event is a gathering of all the bike tribes, with offerings of all difficulties for both road and mountain disciplines. And since Taupo is only 90 minutes away from where I’m living, I automatically signed up for the hardest mtb category… no matter that it’s 82 kilometers (50 miles) long, has upwards of 2000 meters of climbing, and is basically all on singletrack. Sounds like a great idea for someone coming off the stress of an entire racing season, batteries still recharging, and decreased fitness levels, right? At least that was my thought, or better put lack thereof. So now we can add training for an extremely challenging event into the offseason routine. Actually, by now I think it’s relatively safe to say we’re done with the offseason… 

               After realizing I only had about two and a half weeks to prepare for what was quite possibly one of the hardest races I’ve competed in this year, it was time to do a bit of rapid-fire training. That meant a few things: time in the saddle, vertical, some sprinting, and a quick dusting off of the mountain bike skills. Luckily, I had a mountain in my backyard and some in-your-face/physically demanding trails out the front door. Once the first ten days were complete, I was quite relieved that my house didn’t have any stairs. A bit of recovery and final tuning of the body then before I knew it the race was only a couple days away, and all of a sudden it was go time.

Picturesque Lake Taupo

               Turns out Taupo is a little slice from my dreams. A gigantic picturesque lake surrounded by lush mountains and seemingly every outdoor activity known to man. The town was overrun by cyclists of all kinds there for the Challenge event, and in every direction, there were bikes: bikes on the road, outside cafes, on cars, you name it. Instead of being inspiring, it instead brought up the inevitable butterflies and nerves which accompany event weekends. As I settled down for a cozy sleep in the back of the car it took all my willpower to keep the doubts and concerns from creeping in and stealing absolutely all my sleep away. The nagging thoughts are only allowed a few minutes per night.

               I awoke to a cold morning with a light drizzle in the air; the sky threatening more precipitation. After a larger-than-normal breakfast I kitted up and rode the short distance to downtown Taupo and the race start. There was an air of nervous excitement surrounding the city in the pre-dawn glow, as everyone did their best to hide the ever-present race day doubts. Now was not the time for second guessing; now was the time to trust the process and put the best effort on the line. No matter the weather or competition, everyone would be racing only themselves and the clock out there. I rolled up to the mountain bike start line, currently sitting in the second wave scheduled to take off one minute behind everyone up front. Doing everything possible to keep my heartrate in the double digits I focused on breathing, noticing the physical sensations around me, and full-on trying to get the whole meditative state going… to variable success. 

Mountain bike parade

          The first wave was sent off. Away they went into the light rain and towards the 80 kms which awaited us all. The announcer counted us down: “Thirty, fifteen, any time in the next ten seconds…” By now there was no meditative state, no controlling the heartrate: it was time to put the flash-training to the test.

               “GO!”

Airport musings

Round two… here we go. Once again I’m sitting in an airport, completely terrified out of my mind but fully committed to the journey that lies ahead. Quick description of the situation: I’m putting off being a responsible human who uses their newly-earned college degree and running away to work in a bike + ski shop in New Zealand. School has never been high on my priority list, and when I finally walked across the stage and was handed an expensive piece of paper it was a dream come true. Granted, I was in no way ready to leave my friends, the fun times, and the amazing place that is Bozeman, Montana, but I was closing the door on the traditional education part of my life… and at this stage there’s no plans to reopen it.

               As a recent college graduate, it seems as if everyone in the world has one question for you: ‘So what are your plans for after school?’ Then as I would explain how I was going back to Southeastern Wisconsin to live with family and save money, continue to pursue a (vastly unsustainable) career in mountain bike racing, and work as a mechanic for a bicycle company, they would slowly come to the eventual realization that I had no idea what I was going to do. Next, they would attempt to keep the conversation going by politely asking what I majored in, and when ‘geography’ was my answer, the inevitable following question would be ‘what can you do with that?’ After bumbling through some response which hit the buzzwords GIS, planning, and cartography I’d explain how it would most likely be necessary to return to school and somehow come out the other side with a master’s degree. By this point in the conversation I had gone into autopilot mode and I’m sure whoever I was talking to could see my eyes glaze over as I recited the speech I’d done a million times. So they’d be kind and switch the topic, which was completely fine with me.

               Long story short I still have no idea what I’m supposed to do with a college degree… apparently people frame them and hang them on their walls and stuff. And if I don’t know what I’m going to do with an expensive piece of paper I REALLY have no idea what I’m going to do with my life. I knew one thing for sure, I wasn’t going to live at home in the flatlands of Wisconsin. Don’t get me wrong I loved living with my family and coming home from work to a self-refilling fridge, but once my Friday nights turned into ice cream and bed at nine, it was time to take the next step. I did the normal responsible things such as create a respectable LinkdIn profile, update my professional resume, apply for ‘real-person’ jobs, and send countless emails with a slightly-altered cover letter to any company which seemed even slightly appealing. The hard part with applying for jobs as a recent college graduate is that there are literally thousands of people just like you, and millions slightly (or a lot) better. Who is going to take a second look at a twenty-two year old with a recently given B.S. degree in geography who got average grades throughout school, did nothing special in terms of extra-curricular activities (meaning absolutely nothing), and who has two projects to show for work experience, (both of which obviously involved quite a bit of hand-holding and assistance from professors). In any case, it was all about networking, and my current network… well it didn’t exist.

               So throughout all the ‘real person’ job applications, I threw out my resume to a small-town bike shop in New Zealand who were in need of a mechanic. The position description said open to international applicants and I figured what the hell. Within the next few days I got a response email, and after a couple calls over Facebook messenger and more emails I got a job in New Zealand. No bother that it was halfway around the world and I had no plane ticket, or really not even enough money to buy one, but I had an opportunity to run away from adulthood for a bit, and the owner of the shop said I could crash on a couch until I found a place of my own… so what could go wrong?

               That brings us to the current situation: sitting at gate D51 waiting for a glorified aluminum tube to fly away and take me to New Zealand; away from everything that goes along with ‘responsible adulthood.’ Well not directly to New Zealand, I’m far too poor for that. The next thirty hours I’ll have the luxury of calling airports home and will be spending far too long squished into economy class. But on the other end there’s a whole new country for me to explore, countless new experiences, new lifelong friends, and hopefully a decently comfortable couch.

Here we go again

               I’d like to think perseverance is a trait of mine. It takes some level of single-minded/borderline stupidity to do the whole ride-a-bike-really-hard-till-stairs-become-torture thing repeatedly, all in search of that feeling of progress and fleeting race day performance. But even if this perseverance and commitment applies to some aspects of my life, it is definitely not an overarching quality. Take writing for example. In a vain attempt I’ve tried to keep people (not really sure who) up to date on race results, how I felt, what I learned, and how life was going in general. After a few months I realized my repetitive life is not exactly one people would eagerly tune into in order to hear the latest developments. The question “I wonder what Payson’s been up to recently?...” can often be answered by choosing one of a few pre-made answers: riding a bike in little circles, sometimes by himself and sometimes with other people, eating (often ice cream), sleeping, going to work, and every so often traveling to (you guessed it!) ride bikes in circles.

               Long story short, I’ve had multiple documents started with attempts to restart this doomed collection of stories. Each starts off with me trying to be witty and creative in an effort to draw people in to read on about my repetitive life. So I’m going to spare you the cringe-worthy reading and boil down the main points throughout each half-started article into a rapid-fire timeline of the past months. A professor once told me to write in lists as this makes readers get the point faster… so here the point.

·        Upgraded to pro license at the beginning of the season.

·        Got my ass kicked in the first few races.

·        Learned gravel racing techniques (don’t pull the group the whole time).

·        Realized I probably belonged on the mountain bike side of things.

·        Figured out the real pros are incredibly fast and a lot stronger than I.

·        Continued to work my butt off.

·        Graduated college somewhere in there.

·        Figured out how to recover better.

·        Got a few decent results, reckoned I may be in the right category after all.

·        Went home to save money.

·        Danced around the pro podium for the Midwest circuit. (Never saw the top.)

·        Didn’t sleep enough.

·        Results dipped a bit… wasn’t happy with my performances.

·        Got all hippy and introspective: meditation, note-taking, sleep tracking… all that mumbo-jumbo.

·        Came to the grand realization I wasn’t sleeping enough.

·        Started sleeping more.

·        Began to feel better.

·        Results improved.

·        Confidence began to grow.

·        Got a couple wins under my belt.

·        Realized cyclocross racing for only an hour was nice.

·        Continued to dance around the CX podium (mainly in second this time).

·        Had way too much fun riding skinny tires over dirt and barriers.

·        Began to understand why starting in the front row is important.

·        Saw good performances.

·        Saw could’ve-been-better performances.

·        Wound down the season with the feeling that I’ve learned a lot, had great experiences, and hopefully gotten a bit better.

·        Started to get psyched for next season.

·        Ended the season with a bang… actually the sound of cracking carbon and a really sore thumb.

·        (Still finished the race, in third.)

·        Packed up everything I owned and moved to New Zealand.

Phew, that was way easier than writing all about the hardships, successes, failures, friendships, learning experiences, and introspective thinking. Yeah lists are nice.

From here on out the whole perseverance thing is going to try and make a comeback on the writing front. And now because of the last bullet point I have something slightly more interesting to ramble on about… because for some reason living my repetitive life of riding bikes in little circles is way cooler when it’s halfway around the world.

Lessons learned from the GJOF

After throwing everything in the car it was back in the car for a skip, hop, and a jump back to Bozeman. Post-race car rides are always a perfect time for more quality introspective thinking. So, here are a few lessons learned from the Grand Junction off road:

1. Mechanicals happen, but they’re just another part of the sport. You can prepare for them before the event, curse them once they happen, and blame them for poor performances, but at the end of the day it comes with the territory of riding bikes over rocks and the true test is how you can move forward once they happen. Having both a brake and tire fail on me over the course of a couple days can be a bit demoralizing, but learning how to efficiently and effectively deal with mechanicals is always useful.
2. Friends make everything better. I believe the correct term is that ‘suffering loves company.’ when you’re all alone in a new place thoroughly out of your league it’s incredibly nice to not be alone with your thoughts. (Or am I the only one who gets into my own head when given time alone?) Whether it’s traveling down with friends or making new ones, having that support is amazingly beneficial and undoubtedly improved my mental focus and ability.
3. Jumping into the deep end has its benefits. Starting this season with an upgrade to the pro category and two races with incredibly hard fields was daunting, to say the least, but looking back on how they went I don’t think there could’ve been a better method. I’ve been pleased with my performances in each, and while I wish I could move higher in the standings and have less technical issues, I’m taking each as a learning experience and doing everything in my power to get better however I can: stronger, smarter, more efficient, and more confident in my abilities.
4. The metal game is just as important as the physical aspect. Having a strong head screwed onto your shoulders before, during, and even after an event can make a world of difference. Keeping cool throughout, staying calm when things don’t go to plan, digging deep but knowing your limits, and quality/rational analysis after it’s all said and done are just a few examples of how a strong metal game can change the outcome of a race.
5. Have fun! It was great to take time to slow down and enjoy the extra stuff Grand Junction had to offer. Whether it was exploring different trails, finding the best bakery, or enjoying a well-made cup of coffee, simply spending time enjoying life in a new place made the trip so much more enjoyable. Besides… a good croissant and cup of coffee make everything better.

Memories of pain are temporary

It’s a little ridiculous how quickly we can forget about the pain and suffering involved with racing. Driving home after the Whisky off-road in Prescott two weeks ago I was already ready for the next Epic Rides event; this one in Grand Junction, Colorado. Even after digging so deep and going far into the red at the Whiskey, I found myself getting excited to do it all over again. I guess a good quality of a racer is a short memory.

In the few days leading up to Grand Junction training was largely focused around spending a good amount of time in the saddle... perfect timing for spring to hit in Bozeman. If you’ve ever spent an April/May out here you’ll know spring means highly variable weather. One day it’ll be sunny and 70’s, while the next there will be snow up high and cold-inducing rain down low. All in all, these inconsistent weather patterns make for interesting training routines. The floor of my apartment was littered with seemingly every type of cycling clothing imaginable: including everything from short-sleeve jerseys and bibs to thermals and shoe covers. In a vain attempt to control the chaos, everything ended up in one pile… a eclectic collection of riding gear for all weather conditions. Days began by waking up taking a glance out the window to determine how cold the day’s ride was going to end up, then an excavation of the clothing pile to dig out the necessary kit (ideally it’d be clean).

In the end, everything worked out for the best, even if I wasn’t able to work on my tan lines as much as hoped. When it was time to leave for Colorado the legs felt rested and primed with a few hard workouts, and I was ready to bury myself again… little did I know how deep this time though. Driving down with long-time friend Jacob was a great throwback to cross season, where we traveled around Idaho and Montana with curvy bars, rode through mud, and jumped over barriers in the Wild West Cross Series and put off schoolwork as much as possible. Now that university was all finished up we only had to focus on the riding. (Straight bars and hopefully no barrier hopping this time around).

Course preview day

Upon arriving in Grand Junction we met up with Marc Huster, our housing contact in the area. He and his girlfriend Ann were amazing hosts, providing us with everything we needed and free range of the fridge… a bad idea for hungry bike racers. They proved to be yet another family away from home, having us over for dinner, giving us insider tips on trails and restaurants, watching races, and sharing laughs. I’ve always been thankful for the relationships which can be built through traveling to races, and what was built in Grand Junction is one for the record books. After setting up camp we went out for a sunset ride to spin the drive out of our legs. It was immediately clear these trails would be a test to mind, body, and bike alike. Rocky and technical they required spades of both focus and skill. That being said… the Lunch Loop trails were pure fun. The combination of flowy and technical trails provided a nice break from Montana riding, or at least the dry town trails.

MacGyver, anyone??

We got into town Wednesday afternoon, and Thursday morning was spent preriding (almost) all the important sections of the course. After spinning up Tabeguache trail it was clear this event was going to be a leg burner. The ‘doubletrack 4x4’ climb proved to be instead more of a rough, steep, and ledgy trail which would end up being the first climb of the 40 mile race. After hiding from the midday sun in a local coffee shop, I decided to ride a different part of the course: the infamous Butterknife descent. Maybe it’s not really all that notorious, but after my many interactions, it holds a special (ish) place in my mind. About halfway down I made a careless mistake and washed out on a sandy corner. I was fine, but a quick glance at my bike immediately made my heart sink; my rear brake drooped unattached below the handlebar. Further inspection revealed I had snapped part of the closure system, and there’d be no way to successfully fix it in my current state. Needless to say I was pretty pissed at myself for such a stupid mistake, especially a day before the crit. I limped back to the house with my tail between my legs.

Fixing the brake ended up being easier than originally imagined… although it definitely took a higher mental strain as I was constantly wondering if my rear brake would suddenly be useless. By sliding a cotter pin through the broken part and wrenching down on the remaining bolt the brake locked into place, but only time would tell if it’d actually hold throughout the rough track.

Friday morning was another case of hurry up and wait for that night’s fat tire crit. After switching to the slicks, I tagged along with Jacob and Aimee for the first part of their ride around Independence monument. That afternoon the nerves continued to grow, and the familiar feeling that I didn’t belong in this caliber field began to return. Trying to swallow my fears I kitted up and rolled downtown to suffer for 20 minutes. After the gun went off, all Hell broke loose. Three crashes in the first lap took a couple riders out, and completely fractured the field. Since I started in the back (naturally), I was able to stay upright but was on the wrong end of the split. As our chasing group began to disintegrate I figured it was time to see what was in my legs. Sprinting away from the group I put my head down and powered through a few corners, and once I looked back only one rider was on my wheel, and another quick acceleration sent me off on my own. From then on it was a solo time trial of chasing down the lead group. In the end I never caught back on but was somehow able to finish on the leader’s lap, earning 35th place and a bit of a quick ego boost. Maybe I do belong in this field…

Saturday was all about recovery. An easy spin with Aimee at the Kokopelli tracks made for a good morning, and after a couple openers the legs felt ready to go. Now it was a case of getting in the right mental setting to bury myself the next day.

I’ve never fared well with race-day nerves, and Sunday morning proved to be no different. Doing everything in my power to control my breathing Tanner and I got all set up and prepped for the race. This time I’d be riding my Trek Top Fuel, keen on having the extra squish for the technical Grand Junction rocks. After warming up and pretending to not be incredibly nervous, I lined up next to Howard Grotts, Stephen Hyde, Payson McElveen, and the rest of the usual suspects. Still having doubts of my ability level I anxiously stared at the clock as it slowly ticked closer to 8:30. The start of this would be similar to the Whiskey as we’d have a short ‘neutral’ rollout before going all out into the first big singletrack climb, and just as in Prescott I was definitely pushing zone five throughout the entire thing. Not sure if it was nerves, effort, or a combination of the two, but my heart rate skyrocketed the minute the gun went off. Even though my computer was flashing red lights and telling me not to kill myself this early on, the legs felt pretty ok with the effort, which provided a quick confidence boost early on. Fighting for position up Tabeguache I gained and lost places, most likely cresting the top in a similar position to when we first jumped onto the dirt. From there it was a fun rolling track to the top of the now-infamous butterknife.

Initially everything felt good. I was taking the descent easyish, but always staying within contact of the group I was with. All of a sudden, however, I felt the horrible feeling of my back tire losing air. At first I tried to put it out of my mind, and convince myself that I was only playing tricks on myself, but soon enough it became more than apparent that the precious air was slowly escaping my rear tire. Skidding to the side of the track I immediately got to work ripping the tire off, throwing in my spare tube, and clumsily getting the CO2 chuck onto the valve… easier said than done with a rapidly beating heart and shaking hands, all the while thinking of the sheer number of riders flying past.

‘Stay focused; you’re fine; you’re fine… just whatever you do DON’T PANIC.’ I tried to keep myself calm, in the end only losing about eight minutes to the flat tire. Jumping back on the bike I forgot the whole ‘stay calm’ mindset and tried sprinting up the next hill, immediately flooding my legs and pushing just to the brink of throwing up. ‘Ok… slow down and ease back into it…’ My plans were shifting: now I just had to make it down the rest of Butterknife, then I’d turn myself inside out on the climb and see if I could claw back any positions.

One rock at a time I picked my way down the technical track. There were mistakes here and there, but all in all I rode the rest of the descent relatively smoothly, even catching a few riders struggling through the rocky terrain on hardtails. When I finally reached the climb, it was a case of put the head down and go. I knew how long the climb was, and knew if I set my heart rate just at the threshold between zones four and five I could make it up without bonking… or at least that was the thought. So, I put my head down and focused solely on turning over the pedals. Something must’ve worked in that plan as I began to make up places. One by one I passed riders who looked close to the brink of death on the open, exposed, and hot desert road. Everything in my body was screaming at me to quit, but I did my best to shut out the pain and just keep the pedals moving. By the time I finally reached the top, I was worked beyond belief, and just on the verge of completely bonking. Now all I had to do was navigate a relatively technical and high-consequence descent while cross-eyed with fatigue… piece of cake, right?

Wrong. Watching me go down the final long descent was most likely borderline comical. I felt sketchy around every corner, sloppy through the technical features, and rough over the rocky sections. Somehow I made it through without falling or blowing another tire, and when I finally was shot back onto the road to the finish I let go a huge sigh of relief. Now it was only five minutes of pure agony as I forced my exhausted legs to propel me the short distance to downtown, the finish line, and the awaiting rest.

I crossed the line, coasted to the side of the road, and collapsed onto my top tube, unable to move. Seeing stars I tried (to no avail) to control my shaking hands as I held onto the glass of water offered… I only spilled about a third, and Aimee was more than willing to get a few refills until I was able to  see semi-straight once again. As with any event, one of my first emotions after finishing is ‘how could I have done better?’. This time it was pretty obvious: don’t ride like an idiot over a section you didn’t know, and save yourself ten minutes of fixing a flat; don’t run out of water on the climb and decide you wouldn’t need anything for the final road section into town, and maybe don’t jump straight into zone five during the neutral rollout...  Luckily my thinking abilities were quite limited at the moment, so I couldn’t overthink anything too much. Right then the most important thing was enjoying not being on a bike, changing out of a salt-encrusted kit, and the awaiting pizza. Pretty sure the pesto pizza at Pablo’s is the best in the entire world. Or maybe I was in a bit of caloric deficit at the time.

Whiskey Off-Road and attempting to graduate on time

It’s a great idea to start off the season with a 50-mile mountain bike race, in a harder category, after only riding knobby tires maybe five times that year… right? Well Tanner and I thought so, at least. Signing up for the Epic Rides Whiskey Off-Road was probably a horrible idea, but it took relatively no convincing me to register for such an iconic event in an amazing location. After about a day of trying to talk myself out of it, I signed up.

                First off, the race was the weekend before finals week, and to top it off I had an exam Monday afternoon, meaning we’d have to leave Sunday after the event and drive through the night in order for me to attempt to pass a class fueled only by a few hours of restless sleep and countless espressos. In the end everything worked out; the race went well, travels were smooth, and I didn’t fall asleep during the exam… still waiting to hear if I passed but there’s not much to do about that one now.

                After frantically submitting all my term papers and projects a week early, I hit the road for the 16-hour drive from Bozeman to Prescott. Driving through the night I arrived midday on Thursday, already keen on getting on dry, real trails… something that was still a myth throughout Montana. A quick spin satisfied some of the itch but left me wanting more, although a growing headache caused the rational part of me to realize sleep was necessary.

This would be the first event I would compete in racing in the pro category. Sitting in the pre-race meeting was definitely a humbling experience. With multiple national champions, Olympic contenders, and world-cup participants gracing the seats next to me I felt quite out of place. I’m sure it was comical watching my failed attempt to keep my cool in the packet pickup line with Howard Grotts behind me, Annika Langvad in front, and some other guy who looked really fast next to me. That Friday afternoon was the beginning of the weekend events, starting with the fat tire crit. Going in, my goal was to not be the first pulled in such a stacked field. Immediately following the starting gun (literally multiple shotguns in this case) there was a killer of a hill, resulting in my instantaneous journey into zone five and the desire to throw up. Against all odds, I found myself keeping position around the middle of the group, and as the laps ticked away I was even able to gain a few spots here and there. Luckily, criteriums are quick, so the feeling of sheer pain in the legs and screaming lungs was short lived. My group was whistled off the course after 15 minutes, at which point we were able to watch the remaining riders suffer through the final 5. It felt good to actually compete with the big dogs, and even if I was directly in the middle of the pact I proved getting the pro upgrade wasn’t a total fluke… this season would probably just hurt a lot more.

Suffering through the fat tire crit... and the brutal Union Street hill

After letting the legs and lungs recover on Saturday, it was time for the real event: the Whiskey Off-Road backcountry 50 race. This year it was a mix of singletrack and dirt roads, with two major climbs, two puckering descents, and a fast road finish into town. After the gun went off (again, multiple shotguns) it was a ‘neutral’ rollout, in which I was pushing decently hard, so once the race officially started I got dropped off the front group and into the chasing group. Riding hard I considered digging deep and bridging back to the sharp end of the race, but decided against it… as I didn’t really want to blow up this early. Once we jumped into the singletrack, I felt much more in my element, even if the nerves and adrenaline caused a little washout of my front wheel and blood to drip out of my knee for the rest of the event. Calming down it was time for the first big descent, where I really questioned the decision to bring the hardtail. By the bottom I’d kept the rubber side down and only lost a few positions, so all’s well that ends well I guess. A quick little climb saw me gain the lost spots from the descent, then it was down the long dirt road in some sort of a frantic paceline. Once at the bottom, it was as simple as turning around and riding right back up… simple, but not painless. Yo-yoing on and off the group I finally dropped back a bit and started feeling sorry for myself. Shaking out of it I slammed a mega-caffeine gel and a Skratch chew or two and got enough of a second wind to latch back onto the group.

'Neutral roll-out'... yeah right

The climb seemed to go on for eternity. Up and up and up… steep then not so steep, then steep again. My group was keeping a pretty high speed, and people were beginning to show signs of fatigue. From somewhere I pulled a bit of an acceleration and made my move on a particularly nasty section, and it stuck. I got a gap and held it, although this now meant I was in for a solo time trial of pain to the top, then down to the finish. When I did finally reach the top, the first emotion wasn’t joy, but rather concern that I wouldn’t have the mental capacity or physical strength to handle another relatively physical downhill section. Didn’t really have a choice, however. Quick side note… even though I was running on fumes, constantly concerned about riders catching up from behind, and riding a track for the first time as fast as I could, the trails were incredible. I can’t imagine how much fun they’d be if I could actually slow down and enjoy them… goals for next time. Anyhow, I made it down with only one little washout, tearing up my other knee and hopefully looking just a bit more badass for the spectators which eventually began lining the trail. To finish off the event there were a few road miles (largely downhill… thank God) leading into the town, and under the finish banner. Nearing the straightaway, I had one rider in my sights, but two were breathing down my neck. Sprinting towards the finish with every last drop of energy I had left, I rolled across the line without losing my position to the riders behind, but I wasn’t able to catch the rider in front. Breathing heavily I slumped over my handlebars, completely spent. 

When the dust finally settled and the blood had dried on my knees, it was time to analyze the result. I’d come across the line in 46^th place out of about 90 total riders, just shy of my under-40 goal I set in the beginning, but a great result for a first pro race at this caliber event. I was 20 minutes behind the leaders with a total time of 3 hours and 20 minutes, meaning I kept an average speed of about 14 mph. With almost 7000 feet of climbing throughout the event I was pretty proud of the result, but knowing it could be better made me hungry for improvement. 

So then it was back to attempting to graduate university… the main problem was in the fact that the exam I was scheduled to take was about 1000 miles away, and in 24 hours. After a quick shower we hit the road, not super keen on leaving the 70-degree temperatures for the wintery mix happening back home in Bozeman. Driving home I couldn’t help but play the ‘what-if’ game about my race… strategy, actions, and so forth. Shutting that part of my brain down, I turned to realizing truly how amazing the event and experience was that we had just participated in. It lit within me that familiar early-season fire, fueling the desire to look towards the next event, and how to be a better racer by the time it rolls around. Next up: a quick block of resting and training, then off to Grand Junction for the second event in the series. Oh, and I made it back in time for the final… coffee is great test-taking fuel, right?

Montana Gravel Challenge

Well, it’s been a while… again. Apparently the combination of school, work, and training can fill a large portion of available hours. In any case, back here for an early-season update.

                This past weekend was the inaugural Montana Gravel Challenge. It’s basically a combination of what were previously two separate events: the Montana Hell Ride and the Rocky Mountain Roubaix. Now, the sadistic powers that be decided it’d be a good idea to combine the two… and throw in a time trial as well, because why not? All in all, the weekend came out being a three-day event: hillclimb time trial on Friday, Hell ride on Saturday (50 miles), and Roubaix on Sunday (70 miles). Initially, the Roubaix was to be 100 miles, but due to the never-ending winter around Montana the snowline prevented climbing too high. This weekend would prove to be a test piece for the early season legs, and a quick snapshot of how training has paid off… or not… Oh, and it was largely on gravel too, and I have no clue how to road race.

                Day one was the hillclimb, so nothing too interesting there; basically just go as hard as you can for the lightning-quick two mile uphill. By the finish line though, I was well within zone five and feeling the effort. Ended up with the third fastest time, so was really happy with the result going into the two real days.

                The second day consisted of four laps of a circuit, plus the intro and exit on gravel roads, and finished on quite a brutal punchy climb at the end. Off the gun it felt as though people were frothing to go and get off the front. A few attacks went but were quickly pulled back by the leading main group. Finally a few really strong guys went and got a decent gap out front. Being the unwitting loyal servant I am I dug deep and pulled the group back. Only slightly aware that I was burning too many matches too quickly, I kept going hard throughout the laps, letting one group of three go clear. By the time I realized I’d been pushing boundaries for about an hour, it was a little too late. Doing my best to recover what I could I jumped into drafts and attempted to save energy for the final lap and exit. Once we jumped onto the gravel for the final lap the attacks went, and the group blew up. When we finally finished the lap there was one person from the original break, and our chasing group of about 20. Flying over the dirt roads we swung into the finishing straight, and everyone suffered through the final punch to the finish. In the end one person stayed clear, and we all sprinted for second. Since my sprint is a pretty depressing thing, I was somewhere near the tail end in 11^th. All in all, I felt good about my efforts throughout the day, even if I went too hard too early… hey, I don’t know how to do this road bike stuff.

                Day three was the Rocky Mountain Roubaix: 70 miles, half on road and half on gravel. After the starting gun went off, the drizzling rain began. Even though it only kept up for a few minutes, the roads became sloppy and wet. Everything started out a bit mellower than day two, but I was still pushing a high tempo throughout the first climb. Jumping onto the first long climb of the day, everyone was still all together in one main pack. A few attacks went here and there, but the length of the race was a deterrent for anyone to go solo too early. After a relatively relaxed climb and descent, the group began to get a little antsier for action, and when we hit the dirt road it was game on. Once the pace went up, the group began to shatter, and the rough road conditions didn’t help keep everyone in contact. I made an attempt to go forward with another strong rider, but we weren’t able to make it too far away from the group, but the acceleration dropped a few more off the back. When we rounded the corner to descend, the dirt and potholes made everything feel more like a cross event on a wide road than a road race. Mud and sand flew everywhere, and tire-eating potholes hid around every corner sending an already adrenaline-infused ride into sheer sensory overload, complete with a lot of quick reactions. Hitting the familiar exit road from the previous day, it was clear everyone’s legs were toast, but no one was willing to give up, especially since we were sprinting for the overall win. Rounding the finishing corner to the punchy climb once more I dug deep and buried myself, gaining a few spots on the sprint but still finishing around 10^th… consistency is key, huh?

                Overall it was a great intro to race season, and a way to wake up the legs… especially with the Whiskey Off-Road coming up in two weeks. Lessons were learned, largely revolving around the fact that I had no clue what ‘proper’ road racing tactics are, how to pace over longer distances, and high-intensity sprints at the end of an event are a definite area of weakness. All in all it felt good to suffer a bit, and the Montana Gravel Challenge turned out to be one for the books, and I’ll definitely be looking to come back next year… hopefully with some more fine-tuned skinny tire skills.