First Race … Nearly my Last Race!By Funky MountieSo what now? I have listened to my old Mountie buddies: I started my exercising slowly and build it up to what I presume to be a vigorous state of fitness. That was fine but still there was something absent…There comes a time in every greenhorn rider's life when he questions his ability on a mountain bike. Sure, one can have as countless preconceptions about how good one is as one has pairs of D-feet socks, but to be really curious about where one stands on the ladder of the MTB sport, there is only one way to satisfy that nosiness and that is to start racing. It’s like the hammer of justice, just waiting to either humble you to your knees, or glorify your efforts as a true mountie. For me the former took place, and this is my account of it. That morning was a cold and cloudy day in Pretoria, South Africa. The ideal Saturday to sleep late, unless, of course, you had a race that morning and had to get up at 05:00 to be on time to register. I did what I could the night before to prepare my bike for the certain beating that was going to take place at 07:30 the next day. Plenty of miracle chain lube, cable adjustments, and even the slightest gear tweak; I was worked up to such a point of scrupulously worshipping the performance capability of my bike. A healthy breakfast was enjoyed, and of course two beers (for carbo loading – don’t forget the temperature) as was a stretching workout that even a contortionist could appreciate. I wanted to RULE. In fact, it was the only thing on my mind that morning as I drove to the race. With the festive sounds of Radio Jacaranda protruding my brain, I reached the venue. It was immediate intimidation...
There was a LOT to be afraid of, VERY afraid of. But I didn’t let any of this bother me too much as I am THE Funky Mountie. I got out of my car, removed my sweater, showing off my cool MTB Gear underneath and proceeded to the starting line. What I saw there really got my heart racing. I decided to race sport class, thinking that surely I was no pro, but that beginner-level races were, how should I say, below me? Those around me were emotionless, their faces taught with intention. These dudes were just packed with aggression. The race director shouted “GO” and that was followed by the sound of 70 rear tires spinning on loose gravel, and we were off. It had begun… I launched myself from immobility with a detonation of power from my right foot. I soon found myself thundering down the first drop amidst a few of the most tuned riders I had ever seen. I remember thinking to myself, I am one of the best… Just look at me, I’m on top of these guys! This thought changed as the first climb came. I was swallowed by a wide pack of riders passing me, left right and center, faster than I had ever thought possible on a climb like that. Someone had the nerve to say, "You're an hour late! The beginner race ended 20 minutes ago! HAHAHAHA!!" I was enraged. With renewed power I shot out of the bundle like a bullet, but alas 3 kilometers later, I felt my heart tugging at its ability. Sweat began to pool under my eyes and my sight became blurred by huge clouds of dust enveloping me as I, once again, drifted slowly back to accompany the slower riders. This was all too much. I hadn't given ANY thought to the possibility that I should be pacing myself. 5 kilometers later, I began to cramp. My water bottle was exhausted and unexpectedly, so was I. With every crank I felt a knot swell near my knees. The cramps were diametrically opposed. The moment I would try to stand and stretch one calve, the other would cry in pain as it undergo yet another torturing cramp. There was NO escape. Thoughts of my dominating this race were quickly replaced by thoughts of will I finish this race? I pressed on, knowing that the next day would bring the certain suffering accompanied by muscle healing. I didn't care. It became a survival mission. Countless laps (I lost track of everything) later, the finish line were in sight. By this time, I was bleeding on one knee, my head felt like an inflated grenade of pulsating infuriation, and my forearms were twisted with pain. I crossed the finish line placing 68th of 70 riders, beating only those 2 participants who, for one reason or another, simply dropped out of the race. It was degrading. The Sunday I, again, spent all morning in bed, unable to stand. The usual hangover remedies (hot coffee, aspirin, and a nice cold shower) seemed only to insult my condition. I felt like a hospice patient…and I didn't care. I raced my heart out and won the game of survival. At the same time, I learned an awfully valuable lesson. Sometimes bridling one's ego as a cyclist can prove to be the best move one could ever make in an effort to better one self. NO race would ever be as beneficiary to me as that first race had been. My placing: DEAD LAST. So I asked myself: "When can we try that again?" |