Iron Cross VII, mud, blood, sweat and tears in the woods

I pre-reged for this race a while ago when I had the 70 dollars to blow on a race. As the date for the race drew nearer I felt less and less prepared and motivated to do it and more and more people that said they were going to go dropped out. At the 11th hour I got hooked up with a ride with Team Bike Therapy's newest/first/oldest team member Misha (I hope I'm spelling that right) and Warren from Alliance. Misha was one of the founders of the team that would one day become Team Bicycle Therapy, he recently quit Amoroso's to go back to Therapy to start racing cross at the age of 60. Warren is a crit/ track powerhouse rider and is one of the riders responsible to pushing the drives ride to 36 mph on the first lap.
I have to thank Lee for helping to cut out a whole lot of driving time by helping tune Misha's Subaru WRX, it is a very quick car even, loaded with gear, three people and bikes. But we got to the camp ground where the IC lite race was earlier that day, and sat down to our spaghetti dinner in the dining hall. There were about 30 to 40 people in sweat shirts and flannels packing down second helpings of pasta. After dinner we grabbed a bunk house, it was a small partially open shelter with no heat or insulation or bunks. We all laid our sleeping bags and pads our and did our preped for the next day, filling camel backs, ect. Warren and Misha both brought a bottle of wine so we emptied both using our new iron cross pint glasses. As we where getting ready to turn in Chris Pagoda from ciclismo popped his head in the bunk house looking for a place to sleep.

The next morning it was cold, I was freezing after I got out of my sleeping bag. I did push ups to warm up every few minutes, put my chamios cream on with a cold hand and colder cream. Misha made some really good strong coffee but I really didn't wake up until after the first hard road climb and fire road climb. Check point one seamed to come really fast, I was in that early morning auto pilot until the first single track section that I conservatively picked my way though while everyone I passed on the climbs blew by me. But the whole ride until the third check point was pure pleasure. Crisp sunny day, 40+ mph descents on fire roads, bridging up to a small group on the roads and flat sections of fire roads and organizing a pace line, the leaves were at their peak fall colors and shimmered in the sun. The coarse was very well marked, the volunteers at the aid stations were extremely helpful.

Even the long hike-a-bikes where you shoulder your bike and hike for over a mile up the side of a mountain, where hard but not all that bad. After check point three, the road pitched up toward the sky, you would reach what from below looked like the top thinking it couldn't keep going, and it did, for about 5 miles of hard fire road climbing. My tempo was a bit to fast and on the rollers at the top of the climb I came within an inch of cracking. Which is where Warren did crack, after getting three flat tires both of his legs cramped up and he feel over, still clipped in and then started to cry from the pain. That is how hard of a race it was. The single track after the rollers was really tough, and the last hard climb on the single track is where I did crack, my legs cramped up and I had to walk my bike up the last part of the climb before the last hike-a-bike. Mercifully the last 5 miles of riding where on the road, they flew by, I rolled over the finish line after four hours and thirty five minutes in 45th place and received my iron cross socks.


The winner did it in three hours and fourty five mintues, and the last person in finished in seven hours and fourty minutes. Most races are as hard as you make them but this race is just hard period. But I'll be back next year, maybe I'll break 4 hours.

Images are from Felkerino's Flickr site

Preamble to Hillbilly Hustle v.4

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-