Chequamegon 12

It's Monday, cold and rainy. I should have started riding a few hours ago, but it's Monday, cold and rainy. So instead I'll write a word or two about last weekend in an effort to avoid the cold for a moment or two.

I left Minnesota with a stomach full of nerves. I've had a feeling since I finished last year's Chequamegon that I shouldn't have done as well as I did. I showed up this year fully prepared to be crushed by the pressure that I've been holding on to. The race certainly wasn't a huge victory, but I think I did alright.

The morning started cool. Our crew rolled out of bed bright and early for breakfast. Rolling the bikes down to the Norske Nook is always the best way to start a morning in Hayward. We ate awesome food and drank a lot of coffee. Got back to the hotel and drank more coffee. Needless to say, by race time, I was amped up and ready to go. Five minutes left and the butterflies in my stomach must have found that caffeine because their wings are about to bust out of my stomach. Telling myself I've done this before, it's just another day on the bike does nothing. Usually this works, but in a crowd approaching 2,000 there is no kidding myself. Today, this is a big deal. A couple of minutes to go and the four wheelers start to burble. The familiar smell of burned gasoline starts to waft through the crowd, and we are off! The start is always slow and twitchy. So many people elbow to elbow, trying to move forward. I can still see the front, but it's farther than I probably should have let it get. We roll along the pavement accompanied by the roar of mountain bike tires unaccustomed to the tarmac. Slow accelerations followed by violent braking is pretty standard at this point. Finally I can see the police car blocking the road. As we approach the police car the leaders fly off the road to the left into the field. This is where the race truly begins. The people that have just been hanging on basically stop on the grassy hill. The people that were overtaken try to squeak through. Usually it is a sort of chaos until the trail narrows back down. I made it through in alright position and should have calmed down. I tried but failed. I sat in for a bit, but saw a sweet tandem come down and figured it was time to move towards the break. The tandem fizzled on a hill and I was left alone in the front pulling towards the group ahead. Eventually I caught them, but was left in a shape that was not going to help me finish well. Every time we crested the hill it was a fight to get back on. Finally I started to feel a pain in my calves. My body was saying it's time to give up and I couldn't argue anymore. I let them go and kept chugging along. The worst part was seeing the group just ahead and knowing I couldn't reach them. That is where the story of me having a chance to win ended.

This is where the story of me finishing starts. I had fallen back and was ready to quit when I saw that a couple of guys were roaring up on me. They passed and told me that we need to get back in this thing! Figuring I didn't really have anything else going on until Kevin's party I might as well pedal my bike a bit. I hung on his wheel, he was flying! Recovered some, then put in a decent pull. We were moving along. My calves still hurt, a lot, but what can you do? I chugged along eventually hitting firetower. It was painful, but crested the top and saw a familiar mullet. He offered a coke and told me to get it in my big ring! Looking down I was a couple cogs away from there so I complied and pushed until the familiar hurt started again. I got caught by a guy and we caught a couple of others. We worked together pretty well until we got to three to go. Then I put in a pull that was not supposed to be friendly. Everyone was gone except for  the guy that had caught me. He was off my wheel, but hadn't given up. Eventually he caught me and we had what seemed like the slowest race ever up the last hill. I was thinking I could have walked up faster, but on reflection I think that I would have collapsed. I crested the hill and the legs could feel the doughnut holes that I wanted to dominate at the finish. Hammer, Hammer, Hammer!!! Down the hill I can almost grab you Erik's guy but you are just out of reach. Pedal Damn It! was not even close to the profanity that I was choking on. The pain was there in the volume that you can only handle a few times a year, but then with the finish line there was a satisfaction that is so worth it. The Erik's guy held on. I finished and saw Dave O and a few other people who had beaten me. It wasn't my best race there but I earned my 47th place this year. Frickin butterflies.