It's Always Something...

Marisa C. Peacock
10.16.05

This past Saturday I raced Iron Cross Lite at Michaux Forest, Pennsylvania. A beautiful day for an A race, if not a little windy, I looked forward to getting on the line. Like usual, as I approached registration, I quizzed everyone I met about the course. Most of them made note of a rather large climb at the start of each lap. I eyed the barriers that sloped sideways on a hill with contempt. Butterflies started in my stomach—but it was more excitement than nerves.

I passed Melanie and Judd; I ran into Beth Mason of NCVC; and some fellow PVC mates. I also ran into a woman from last week’s race. She told me that I missed the Women’s B race. When I told her that I was racing A’s now, she looked stunned. “Wow. I can’t do A’s. I won the B race though.” I couldn’t help but smile. Any doubts I had about doing the A race were relieved. I had no time for sandbaggers.

I made adjustments to my bike, trying to recover what last week’s mudfest had done to my rear derailleur and chain. Though I brought my trainer, I chose to warm up on the road, rather than on the gravel, as I could just imagine the firestorm of gravel ricocheting off my car. Returning to my car to eat and hydrate, Beth passed me as if on her way to the start. She noticed my Luna bar and said, “I should eat something, too. I get so nervous that I forget to eat.” And she turned around. WOW! Beth Mason gets nervous? This was news to me.

I was the first racer to the line. As more of us gathered, we were ushered approximately 150 meters up the course. The USCF official hadn’t wanted to walk all the way down—shortening our initial ascent. There were six of us lined up. Melanie had been excited that I was now racing in the A category, so she moved over for me to be on the front line.

And we were off! The climb up when you’re clamoring for space was tough, but I just kept telling myself to stay on Beth’s wheel. I’d ridden a cross practice with her and was able to stay with her then—I could certainly do it now. Before the race she had mentioned how she hadn’t ridden all week and how she’d be getting over a cold. It was my plan to capitalize on her weaknesses if given the opportunity. I kept on her wheel and then I passed her. On the first climb. I started to panic, thinking that I couldn’t look back. I couldn’t slow my tempo any and take for granted that I was not riding in last place. Like a bat out of hell I flew. The barriers had me breathing hard, but I didn’t care. I pushed that much harder, in case Beth was nipping at my heels. Oddly, though, she wasn’t. I had her by a lot. And I kept gaining more distance.

Before my race I had asked Thom Moore how many laps he did in his 30 minutes. He had done five laps. The course was awful short. Except for the climb at the start and then the dreadful barrier/run up, there was nothing but switchbacks and a ride through the woods. I figured that we’d also do five laps—the most I’d ever done in a race.

Strangely, I began to look forward to the hill each lap. Not only were my legs born for hills like these, the sooner I climbed it the sooner it was over and then all I had to overcome were those darn barriers. I heard the cheers of my teammates and I kept at it. On the beginning of my fifth lap I was over taken by Melanie, Betsy and Heidi. I thought for sure I’d be pulled as I went by the finish area, but luckily I told my legs to keep on going in case I was wrong. Good thinking—because I had to do those dreaded barriers one more time. Lap number six—here I come!

After the race, I was ecstatic. Not only did I not finish last (again!) I had beaten Beth Mason! Could I really be A racer material? Did I have the legs to get by—could I be the future of the women’s A field? I had visions of podiums and wreaths and…then Beth came over and showed us that her front brake had been on the entire race, making her front wheel virtually inoperable. Okay, so I wasn’t really a better athlete than she was, it was purely a technical problem. Humbled and brought down to Earth, I gave a polite smile and headed back to the car.

However, I did feel pretty good. I began to feel like I wasn’t a total fraud to be in the women’s A race. Some of the women waved to me as they rode back to their cars. I looked up to them (literally and figuratively) and hoped that they’d welcome me. I yelled, “Good race!” and they yelled back, “You, too!”

They were right. It was a good race.

Addendum

After the race, I stopped for fuel at exit 14 on I-81 south. After that I called the race promoter of last week’s race to pick up my (okay, Nate’s) wheels (It’s okay, he knows…) that I had left in the wheel pit. He called me back at exit 5 and I followed his directions to his house.

I was feeling particularly good about life, as I had successfully navigated my way to his house and back onto 70 East without writing anything down. This, I considered a great feat, as I usually need to turn myself around a few times. Shortly after I got on 70 East, I stopped at a Maryland rest stop. I had a hankering for a Coke so I went to retrieve my wallet.

Wait a minute! Where’s my wallet? Without thinking, I knew immediately where my wallet was—or better yet, where it wasn’t. It wasn’t on the roof of my car—the last place I had put it while refueling my car.

Anyone else would have broken down at the thought of this. But I knew better. Having been through similar situations before (too many times), I know there’s no time or use in getting all hysterical. What I did know is that I had about a 30 minute window to find the wallet. It had only been about a half-hour since I stopped off at the BP station. It was far too windy out for it to have held on for too long. Most likely, it’s in the vicinity of the gas station and I was on a mission.

You’d think not having a license physically in the car, would have stopped me from barreling down I-81 N pushing 80+ miles an hour. But it didn’t. The mere thought of all the things I’d have to reissue or cancel made the weight of my foot bear down on the gas pedal more.

I pulled into the BP station and ran inside. No wallet. I looked around the pump I used. No wallet. I looked in the parking lot across the street where I had stopped to make a phone call. Still, no wallet. I trolled the grassy patch along the road. No wallet.

Defeated, I told myself to get over it. You lost your f***ing wallet. Moron. I got back into my car, still eyeing the side of the road. I approached the on-ramp of I-81 S, and thought about searching the grassy patch on the side. Again, I told myself to get over it. There’s no wallet. Suddenly, as I merged into the right lane, I saw something about 100 meters ahead. MY WALLET! I pulled over onto the shoulder, put my hazards out and opened my door. With no traffic approaching, I sprinted out into the lane and retrieved my wallet. I saw that my driver’s license had spilled out. I picked it up and ran back to the car and drove home happy.

[The only thing that was missing, ironically enough, was my USCF license, which must have come out with my license and blew away.]

Fun in the Mud

Marisa Peacock
10.10.05

The Washington Post stated, “Remnants of Tropical Storm Tammy dumped about 7 inches of rain over two days on the Washington region, ruining weekend plans.” This was true, except of course if you love cyclocross, in which case Saturday’s Breast Cancer Awareness Cyclocross Challenge benefited from Mother Nature’s emotional breakdown.

It was a much needed relief from the last year’s rather dry and warm cross season and I was giggling with excitement as I drove (or waded) to Hagerstown. I barreled along Interstate 270 as cars spun out to my left and right, water logged and washed out. I arrived at South Hagerstown High School around eight-thirty, a good two and half hours before my race. For unknown reasons, the Cyclocross Challenge had not scheduled a women’s B race. Therefore I had, by default, chosen to race in the women’s A race. Bikereg.com had indicated five registrants for the race, among them was Heidi Von Teitenberg, currently ranked second in the MABRA series.

When I arrived, I was one of two women present and registered. I prepared my bike, ate and hydrated throughout a flurry of rumors that our field would be combined with the men’s B or the master’s race. The course looked grassy, always a plus in my book—as what I lack in actual technique, I am able to make up for in legs and overall spunk. However, I swallowed cautiously when I contemplated this fateful race, as I was quick to remember that I hadn’t actually logged in any miles on my bike this week—and now I was committed to forty-five minutes of mudding.

Easily distracted as I am, I ran over to my Cary and Ron’s minivan as soon as they arrived and watched as they struggled to open the vehicle’s hatchback. I could tell they weren’t as excited as I was about the rain, but then I reassured them that it could be colder, or worse snowing, and I could see that they felt better about things. Back at the sag wagon, my trusty VW, I anxiously wasted time preparing my wheels for the pit and checking out the competition. More women began to arrive and it was apparent that we’d be racing our own field.

I befriended the guy parked beside when he returned to his car. He had just won the men’s C race and was rather humble about it, which I appreciated. He offered to take my wheels to the pit for me, as I made final preparations to my bike and wardrobe. Either he was just a nice guy or he suspected I was a little flighty, because he offered up polite suggestions: I should wear my rain jacket for the warm-up; I shouldn’t hang around talking, but should actually go warm-up; and that I should remember to have fun! All very helpful!

As I approached the start/finish area, the officials gave us extra time to take in a ride-through of the course. I recognized Heidi, stylishly plastered into her slimming skin suit. I looked down at my well-bruised legs from last week’s race, and thought she and I are very different people. We rode around and I began to have doubts as I became a bit more winded than I prefer on a ride-through. I also became very muddy very quickly, as the three previous races had torn up the course nicely. In our discussions, my fellow competitors and I determined that it resembled organic peanut butter, with the oil separated out on top. Mmm…peanut butter!

Back at the start, the rain had subsided for now, but in true cyclocross fashion, once the officials blew the whistle, the skies opened up on us. There were six of us and the race flyer had indicated that they were paying eight deep. All I had to do was finish and I was guaranteed some loot. Sweet! However, loot or not, I was more intent on not finishing last. My main competitor was a spunky woman from Artemis Racing. She and I had previously shared our concerns about racing in the A’s and made typical race day chatter about how we were going to get spanked! (I rarely take these conversations to heart, as I know that everyone always downplays their fitness level and I should never assume that I have an edge over anyone!)

Off on our first lap, I got myself into a good position behind Melanie Swartz. I got a little stuck in the mud and had to dismount and run around a few corners to get myself along. I was easily ahead of Artemis, but didn’t want to take anything for granted. However, coming down off a downhill into a quick switchback into a quagmire of mud, I missed the turn and ran right into the tape! Because of this one woman got in front of me, but I quickly bounced back (thanks to the tape’s elasticity). Running up in the mud was taxing and I vowed to add underwater running to my race preparation.

Once past the vicious uphill and slippery downhill, the short, but steep climb behind the baseball backstop and the ravine of muddy water, it was flat, muddy and ideal riding. I put my legs to work, got down in my drops and shifted into a harder gear. Lap by lap I rode around, fighting off Artemis chasing me and being coached by her studly boyfriend (who I must admit, gave fairly good advice of which I also took advantage). On the third lap Artemis cut in front and I was now chasing her. I stayed close behind, not wanting to give up anything. I hadn’t felt this sort of raw energy before and I let it lead me around, my wheel on hers, mud flying and spraying. She had me on the first hill and the downhill, but I got her, to my surprise, on the steep climb—due mostly to throwing my bike up the hill. As we approached the corner before the finish, Artemis caught me and I was behind again.

Starting what was to be my fourth time around, I was lapped by Elizabeth Schauer of Fort GPOA and Heidi. I got Artemis by the barriers and she sort of let me go. In years past, the old Marisa would have stayed with and made polite conversation and lost the good fight. However, the newer, more fierce (perhaps it’s the rain) Marisa dug in and passed her and never looked back. As I approached the start/finish area I psyched myself up for a final lap, but to my delight, the officials flipped the lap card to zero and told me I was done. Yippeee! I had finished in fifth place, which more importantly wasn’t last. My first A race and I was top 5 (or bottom 3, depending upon your outlook—which unfortunately was the perspective the race director took and decided to only pay three deep)!

Cyclocross is Life

Marisa Peacock
10.05.05

It’s a powerful statement, indeed. I write it not to exonerate cyclocross from the raucous, beer-drinking affair that it clearly is, but to highlight the crucial elements, that in fact, make cyclocross one of the greatest sports on two-wheels. I’m not trying to elevate it to the status of an uber-sport, à la Tour de France, but rather to admire its “every cyclist” persona.

I know this because I am not very good at cyclocross, but I am crazy about it! Starting my third official season of cross, armed with two knobby tires secured to my Surly frame, I set out weekend after weekend from September through December to race over barriers and sandpits and hike my bike up and down steep hills, through the gnarliest of weather—and for what? Fame? Hardly. Fortune? Not likely. I do it so I can get up in the morning, despite my crappy job, and know that I have done something. A whole lot of pain for a little bit of redemption.

Such redemption doesn’t always come in the form of prize or cash awards, though nice, but mostly it comes in the form of mud, blood and vindication. Cyclocross is the Fight Club of our time—an arena where seemingly well-adjusted folks convene to trade egos for humility, and stare down our own Tyler Durden. We conquer ourselves with every ankle we twist, shin we bruise and collarbone we break. And still we get up and finish our laps bloodied and muddy, but smiling.

Not to get overly symbolic, but cyclocross is the perfect metaphor for overcoming obstacles—literally, the two foot high barriers we must jump over tirelessly—and figuratively, when life deals us a near fatal blow, from which we can’t imagine recovering. Last weekend, that was me, face down in a pile of gravel, having hit the deck after taking the wrong line in a switchback. The crowd watched as I drove my bike into the ground, got back up, spit out some rocks and continued on. There was no time to take inventory of my body; I had escaped with out flatting—I was good to go, so I did. And the crowd cheered on and I gave a casual smile. Even if I came in last (which I did) I wasn’t giving up, not for a bloodied knee or bruised ego.

These moments come back to me in my seemingly well-adjusted life—and suddenly deadlines, conflicts, and temporary setbacks in love and life don’t seem so insurmountable. Despite my bruises, I will be out there next weekend doing it again. After all, though you may get the wind knocked out of you, whether in life or in cyclocross, as long as you’ve still got air in your tires, you’re good to go.