So after getting my first real mountain bike, I about tore it and me to pieces. I gradually learned to ride well off road. Actually “well” is a bit of an exaggeration. Let’s say I learned how to stay upright, and to clear some of the easier obstacles without embarrassing myself too badly.
The state of the art improved. A new bike was the thing. And soon, I added a fork! I mean a suspension fork. Early Turner part. Elastomer. I thought it was pretty nifty. A whole inch and a half of travel.
At the same time, I’d replaced my daughter’s wretched lead sled with a real mountain bike. It was an entry level brute, but with some modification, it was not too bad.
In those days it came to pass that we heard of a real mountain bike race. And it was to be nearby. Way cool. We both decided to enter.
And then we decided that going to the race site and riding the course would be a good idea. So we did.
This was one tough course. Honest to goodness single-track, with a lot of terrain. We did one lap of the course, about eight miles. And then decided to go for another pass. Naturally, it started raining when we were about halfway around the loop. I don’t just mean a light shower either. It thundered. It roared. It poured. By the time we got back to the trailhead, we were both cold and drowned rat wet. I got the car started and running to get the heater going. Then we manhandled both bikes onto the trunk mounted rack.
When we got into the car, the windows were all steamed up. I put the thing into reverse to back out. My intention was to get us to food and warm dryness as fast as possible. I backed up, and… THUMP! I hit something. With the back of the car. The part where the bikes were.
Oh (dirty word expurgated)!!
A quick examination revealed that the only damage was to my bike’s rear wheel. It was taco city.
On the way home, I stopped at the only local bike shop in the area. They had a rim and spokes in stock. I bought them.
That night, instead of getting a good night’s rest before the race, I stayed up rebuilding the wheel. By one A.M. it was true, taught, and ready. (Incidentally, it rained all night.)
Race day. We had our first disappointment. My daughter was extremely annoyed. The organizers had a “kiddy course” set up for the youngsters. She was too young to be allowed to race on the real single track. She was not amused.
We watched the younger racers finishing their event. They were coming off the course covered in mud. I managed to talk with a couple of young guys I knew. They said the course was a slippery, slick disaster. One grinned and said it was “Fun!”
I looked around at the competition, as I lined up with the other masters. This was not going to be pretty. Most of them looked very lean and very fit. The starter said, “Go!” And I was dropped to the back of the pack in moments. The rock garden section didn’t help my standing any.
I made up some distance in the long, tricky descent sections, but the climbing just about killed me. I got to the top of the ridgeline alone.
Honestly, I thought I knew which way I was going. At any rate, I took a trail. Suddenly I was facing a bunch of the leaders, and they were coming right at me. I’d jumped off of the course and was now ahead and going the wrong way. I waited until the leaders passed me, and then followed them. I wasn’t racing any more. I was just trying to get out of the woods.
It took me a while after that fiasco to realize this. I don’t like mountain bike racing. I mean I like it okay… for other people. I just don’t want to do it. I have way too much fun riding in the woods, with friends, or alone. But I have no need to race.
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