I Can't Stand Up for Falling Down

VACX #4 3Sports Red Cross- Back to Chimborazo Park was by far the most terrifying, death-defying race I’ve raced since my debut at Frank n' Horst cyclo-cross in Keene, NH in 2002, at which the leader of the Women’s B race dropped down into a ravine and then over a cliff, resulting in a broken neck and the subsequent closure of the course. Back to Chimborazo Park though not as injurious, was just as mentally challenging and physically taxing. Complete with a fast downhill, two ninety-degree turns, a stretch of cobblestones, a stone staircase and in my opinion, a most dreaded curb.

You see, thus far in my cyclo-cross and mountain bike career, I have been able to overcome lots of obstacles. I can manage to jump a few logs or bounce my bike down loose shale and even ruthlessly tackle fierce climbs in the mud. However, the one obstacle I dread the most, is the aforementioned curb. I have yet to successfully jump a curb. I usually approach them with the best intentions of bunny-hopping over it, but within inches of the approach I freeze, break hard and resort to dismounting instead. I’m a big wimp.

I came to the race fashioning my hair in braids, as I thought it would add an element of innocence that had been missing from my cyclo-cross season. It seems that I was more preoccupied with my hair than with my bike, as I forgot my helmet. Fortunately, Nate and I have small heads (no comments, from the peanut gallery, thank you) and we were able to share his helmet—an idea that sounded good at the time, until he handed over a sweat-soaked helmet ten minutes before my race. I realized it was the least of my worries, as the course tour proved treacherous. I raced through, worried that I’d be late to the start. I got to the line winded, just in time for the whistle. I was off the back immediately, but stayed close to the woman in front. I must confess, though that I didn’t have grand aspirations of advancing on the field. I was mostly focused on that damn curb.

After the barriers, a stretch of park road led us around a corner that led into a rapid descent. This was the best part, as it was fun and fast and offered two little divots, which rattled my brain around enough that I could feel no pain. After the descent, a sharp turn onto roots and a steep little hill, after which lay a pit of sand and the ruins of stairs directly left. I never did figure out how to ride this section, so after the successful climb, I dismounted and limped up until more secure terrain presented itself. A flat stretch that allowed for some speed soon disintegrated into a 120-degree cobble stoned turn. After being led down hill and around and up again, I was faced with a staircase of stone steps (see http://cougar.collegiate-va.org/phunnicutt/crossrace.html for pictures of the course). Being as short as I am, I could still manage to take two steps at time with my bike hoisted over my shoulder, but I couldn’t go up too quickly. I looked down the entire time, careful not to misstep or slip. At the top, I was greeted each time by an eager spectator, readily equipped with one-liners meant to inspire the slow. On the second lap, I joked that my short leg-span didn’t allow me the speed he beckoned. He replied only “suck it up.” And with no other options provided, I did.

Surely, you must think that the worst was behind me. And if only for a slow and tiresome ascent up and around the top of a hill, you’d be right. Except that the only thing remaining between the top of the hill and the dreamy grassy area was a miserable curb. They had provided a ramp of gravel and brick to aide us, but I still felt unsure. It didn’t help either that my attempts would be well documented by onlookers and race officials. It wasn’t pretty, but I did it. I chose my line, sped up, closed my eyes and hoped for the best. Each time I made it up, staying upright and rubber side down and then I zipped along ready to start the next lap. Six laps later, I finished in fifth place.

Thanks to Scott Scudamore for his embedded photography and tasty post-race bratwurst.