John-Jack Drummond and I have an affinity for driving to New Jersey and racing our bikes together. On this particular occasion, we were headed to Elmer—a small stretch of land in south-western NJ’s rural farming land. This sparsely populated area of just 1400 inhabitants is known for its sprawling acres of orchards, which fan out in every direction. And, at this time of year, the trees are still bejeweled with brilliant red fruit.
George Carlin would often poke fun at NJ. For example, saying: “New Jersey is the Garden State?…yeah, right!…What are they growing, smokestacks?” I suppose, for him, growing up in New York City, he viewed NJ as an inferior patch of land across the River—much like we Philadelphians view the City of Camden. It’s there, though, we wish it wasn’t. If George visited Elmer, he would realize NJ is only mostly a criss-cross of highways, byways, jughandles, smokestacks, and boardwalks. There are still secret gardens tucked away out there. Thank God.
For both John-Jack and I, this was our first cyclocross race of the season. At 7’oclock in the morning we were both filled with anxiety and coffee. This combination often leads to frequent trips to the bathroom—this time was no exception.
Our twin-bikes were clean & shiny as we hoisted them to the roof. In a matter of hours, though, that would all be changed. After a final check of equipment & sundries, we packed the car. Once satisfied everything was in order, we headed for the fog drenched Walt Whitman Bridge—guided by the lifeless voice of John-Jack’s GPS. It was eerie, though, in a matter of 35 minutes we would safely be at our destination: Hillbilly Hustle v.4
Once off the highway, we zigzagged through the farmland and its backroads. As we approached the address, a man clad in fluorescent clothing guided us to park in a recently mowed field. The car scraped at the topsoil as hundreds of grasshoppers hopped to avoid a crushing fate.
After signing-in, we completed our silly-long checklist of the pre-race routine—numbers were pinned, tires inflated, legs smoldered from the heat of embrocation on our freshly shaven legs. We spent the remaining time before the race surveying the course’s twists & turns. This being New Jersey, after all, there were no real ups & downs, save for a man-made heap of dirt aptly named Mt. Doom.
Because Mt. Doom claimed a victim last year (in the form of a broken clavicle), and this being New Jersey, a round-about was created for those too scared or unwilling to traverse the earthen pile. Taking the bypass, however, would cost a rider two extra seconds to navigate.
On our warm-up lap I, too, fell victim to the deceivingly dangerous Doom. I approached the steep ramp with what I thought was enough speed to send me safely to the other side. As I reached the top, I stalled. My bottom bracket scraped the crest while my front wheel sunk into the still-soft unpacked dirt. Unlike my bike, my body was in motion, though, I was no longer in control—gravity had taken over me. I flipped forward, my feet solidly locked into the pedals. My bike and I, once atop the great Doom, were splayed shamefully on the ground below. Welcome to cyclocross, I thought. I received high marks in fallsmanship from the microphoned announcers calling the play-by-play. I could see the confidence evaporate from the faces of my girlfriend, Father, and random onlookers as I picked myself off the ground. I bolted upright, jumped on the bike, and surveyed the damage. My pride may have sustained a broken collar bone, but my body was fine. I rode away with all parts in working order. Off to the races…
-m-
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