It feels as though it has been ages since I’ve had the opportunity to line up and get between the tape, and in actuality it has. 525 days, in fact, since I toed the line at a race. One could say I’m frothing a bit to get back into it. So, the Echo Red to Red xc race this past weekend was quite the breath of mental fresh air; finally having the opportunity to ride bikes hard was incredibly refreshing… even if it was a complete (yet altogether expected) shock to the system.
True to
style, my preparation for the event was quite lackluster. Between long days at
work, rushed bicycle maintenance, and spotty travel logistics, the overall
stress level was relatively high coming into the weekend. With race day fast
approaching, I was still putting pieces of the puzzle together: finding
transportation (currently car-less), securing housing (or rather a camp spot),
modifying a volatile work schedule, and remembering to stay hydrated. As Friday
morning rolled around (race was Saturday) I still had no transportation, no
definite place to camp, had to get projects done at work, and was most likely
quite dehydrated from the copious amounts of coffee. So yeah, you could say
planning was subpar. Eventually everything was put into motion and I somehow
got my shit together enough to hit the road Friday afternoon in a tiny rental
car, a decent day’s work under my belt, and a vague idea of where I’d be
sleeping that night. (Magically, it turned out the only thing I had forgotten
was a toothbrush; while unfortunate for my dental hygiene was a relatively
minor error if I do say so myself.) With
a five-hour drive ahead it was time to plug in a podcast or three and turn the
brain off a bit.
Does
anyone else have a very intrinsic fear of the dark? It’s not as though I’m
frightened of anything in particular, but rather the feelings of doubt,
questioning, and uncertainty that seem to always arise when the sun goes down.
As it happens, I always seem to be driving through a new place with an
unfamiliar race ahead of me when darkness begins to creep over the landscape,
so maybe these are just my own emotions coming to the forefront… who knows… In
any case, the feelings of “what-the-absolute-hell-am-I-doing?” started to arise
somewhere right after Yakima, with another 90 minutes or so left in the drive.
By now the sun had dropped well below the horizon, and the last comforting rays
of light had disappeared into the darkness of the unknown. It was far too late
to turn back now; I was committed, but second-guessing myself at every turn.
Doubts ranged from both ends of the practicality spectrum: Was it really worth
it coming this far? Should I be saving the expenses for a bigger event, or one
closer to home? Am I actually going to have a place to set up a tent tonight,
or will I be figuring out how to sleep in a Nissan Versa? What if I flat? Are
there bears out here, and if so… how sealed is my cooler?
That all
changed when I pulled into the sleepy town of Echo, Oregon. It was clear from
the number of sprinter vans, pop-up campers, tents, and bike stands that
something out of the ordinary was going on in the town of 500 people. Driving
around I began to get the familiar feeling of nervous excitement that
accompanies race weekends. Eventually I found my friend Landon’s Tacoma and
team tent tucked away next to a small park, the perfect setting for some
impromptu urban camping. Landon and Shane were both still up, and happy to
shoot the shit while I prepared a gourmet meal of mismatched pasta from my
pantry, slightly cooked broccoli, and some sad-looking kale leaves I scrounged
from some corner of the fridge. After getting our fill of catching up and
pre-bike race geek talking, it was off to bed in my one-person tent and
continuously deflating sleeping pad. At least the streetlamps were off…
True to form, I was up before the
sunrise with seemingly no intention of going back to sleep. It was an initial
surprise to open up the tent flap and see buildings, but then I remembered I
was camping in a downtown park. Obviously my thoughts immediately shifted away
from the unorthodox tent location and to coffee. After a quick rummage through
the food bag, a rushed stove set up, and a quick coffee grind (thanks
Javapresse for letting me be a coffee snob wherever and whenever), there was a resulting
americano and a much happier Payson. Just as there’s something about the night
before a race, there’s something unique about the morning of race day; a palpable
sense of excited tension in the air. Additionally, racers who traveled to Echo
all seemed to realize how special that race morning vibe was. Smiles (some
hidden under masks) abounded, and an overall feeling of elation spread
throughout the small town.
Eventually we did remember our
reason for being there, though. The elite wave was first to go off, and it was
full of big hitters. It seemed as though everyone within a six-hour radius
lined up, and it soon became clear this wouldn’t be any walk in the park. As
the race announcer gave out callups, I could already feel my heart rate begin
to rise. After a few final descriptions of the course, the gun went off, our
neutral rollout began, masks came off, and the race was on. Spinning out of
town, the mood was lighthearted as the pace stayed low. Although as soon as we
turned onto the first gravel road and the starting line became closer, the pace
lifted and people started jockeying for position near the front of the group. Once
across the line, it was full gas. With the help of an initial tailwind the
group speed skyrocketed. Small rocks were flying in every direction and a few
water bottles ejected themselves as we raced mach ten down a loose gravel road,
eventually ducking into some of the dustiest singletrack I’ve experienced. So
dusty, in fact, that it was difficult to see the trail in front of your wheel,
and riding by braille soon became necessary. Quickly a lead group of six
formed, and Evan Plews moved to the front to set a solid pace. For the next 90
minutes or so it stayed pretty much status quo: Evan plugging away in front with
five of us in tow. I stayed behind the wheel of my friend Landon Farnsworth, as
I knew his handling skills were on point and I could trust his line down the
often rock-strewn descents. Most of race involved a steady power output, with a
few surges on the climbs. These spread the group out on occasion, but only by a
bike length or two, and within a minute we were all packed together once again.
Internally, I was feeling good. The
pace was well within my limit, and while the punchy climbs were difficult, they
were nothing to be concerned with. I could tell my high-intensity legs weren’t
along for the ride, but that was a problem for future Payson. And yes, it did
eventually become a problem. Once we jumped off the singletrack and onto a dirt
road there was a short and steep hill, and I made the unfortunate mistake to
choose that exact moment to reach for my bottle. Unfortunate because this was
the exact moment Ian Brown and Carson Hampton decided to blow the group to
smithereens and keep 600 watts or so up the hill. I was caught completely off
guard and got distanced from the back of the group… which is just another way
of saying I definitely did not have the legs to stay in touch with the now-leaders.
After the surge, the group shattered, with Carson out front, Ian chasing solo,
a group of three, then myself about 20 seconds behind. Knowing there was only about
5 minutes left in the race, it was time to dig deep and pull every last bit of
energy from the reservoir for a last-ditch effort to latch back onto the group
in front. This was made all the more difficult by the sharp headwind, which seemed
determined to keep my just out of reach from the group in front. Eventually it
was clear I’d be coming in solo “last of the front” and it was now time to simply
keep up the pace until the line.
Back in town after the event, the
usual chit-chatting began with everyone recalling the past few hours; talking
about how good it was to be back between the tape and congratulating each other
for a job well done. After the good-natured complaining about how hard it was
and conversations about future events, it was time to pack up and hit the road
for home. The long drive home offered an opportunity to critically analyze my
own race effort as well as listen to the entire discography of A Tribe
Called Quest.
Overall I was happy with my
performance. Yes, it would’ve been nice to stay with the leaders and have a go
at the podium, but at this time in the season and on a course that historically
has not favored my riding style, I was content with how I had fared. Training up
to this point has largely consisted of base miles at endurance pace with a few tempo
blocks thrown in for good measure, so having a high-intensity race effort was definitely
foreign to my legs. Additionally, the fact that I was able to stay with the
lead group without any real difficulty throughout all the singletrack surges was
a good sign. The next few training blocks would be dedicated towards working on
the high-intensity legs and sharpening up the subLT skills (i.e. going hard for
longer periods of time), which theoretically will build on top of the current
endurance abilities and put me closer to the sharp end of the stick. Another
reason I was satisfied with my semi-lackluster performance was due to my
pre-race routine and preparation. Spending the day before an event on my feet,
at work, slightly stressed out, and likely not hydrating enough was undoubtedly
not the most ideal situation… think about what could be possible when I
actually take care of myself? In any case, the result in front of my name wasn’t
exactly what I would necessarily like to see at the end of the day, but given
the circumstances it was something to be relatively proud of. If anything, my
performance was a clear indication that training had been working, and what
needed to be worked on. Well, the first race of the post-covid era (ish) was
under my belt… I survived, thrived a little, suffered a lot, learned heaps, ended
the day with a smile on my face, and got to drive home listening to Q-Tip and Phife
dog’s lyrics flow from the tinny speakers in my tiny rental car. Things are
looking up from here!
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