File under: “Super XC”, Cross-reference: “Cactus
Nationals”
Summary: Cool and overcast in Phoenix for the
Nationals Super D. Terrain is cactus and kitty litter. Course is really...
whatevery, but not a very steep whatever. Pros get mooned. I pass her, she
passes me, I pass her. Grrrr! I love racing.
Fountain Hills, AZ
Friday-Sunday, Mar
18-20, 2005
It’s early afternoon on Friday when I head out the 8
Freeway going east toward Arizona, and the mountain bike race that awaits me. I
don’t go far before I see another car with a mountain bike strapped on a roof
rack, and conclude that they must be going to the NORBA Nationals too. After
all, they have a mountain bike and they’re headed east – where else could they
possibly be going??
I text message my friend Kim to let her know I’m on the
way, and periodically update her with my progress. Half-way into the trip, I key
into my phone pad, “Approaching Gila Bend, AZ. No sign of any monsters. Will
maintain vigilance.” In this manner, I amuse myself for a good hundred miles,
and then finally arrive in Phoenix around 9pm. Kim lives about 45 minutes from
the race venue, and the three of us staying with her make our plans for the
following morning when we’ll go to practice the Super D course.
Saturday morning we arrive at McDowell Park and find that
this course is “self-shuttle” to the top. Super D, being a “gravity event,”
usually requires either a truck or a chairlift to take you to the top of the
course. The lack of either one suggests that we Super D-ers are either the
red-headed step-children of the NORBA Nationals, or that perhaps this course
does not really constitute such a “gravity” event after all. Or both. As I take
the Turner RFX off the car rack, I see Bobby Bondurant, another downhiller
racing Super D, who has just pre-ridden the course. He advises me to take the
lightweight XC bike instead of the Turner, commenting that the Super D is more
like a XC course. “You won’t need those pads, either,” he adds, referring to the
shin guards and chest protector I’m wearing. I hesitate, but then remember that
it’s Bobby I’m talking to, and even if he is older than me he’s over-the-edge
fearless. So I compromise, taking the lightweight XC bike, but keeping the body
armour, and load my bike in Donna’s truck to shuttle up the hill.
As it happens, the course is just as Bobby says. It
requires nothing more than a light XC bike, and no armour at all. Much of the
course is flat, with as many climbs as descents, some really fun winding
singletrack, and fast, open fire roads – nothing really technical or difficult.
This course will be challenging because it will require strength and endurance.
The scenery is amazing, and only in Arizona would you find as many variety of
cactus just waiting to snag your jersey or bite into your tires. There is
nothing cushy at all to fall in should you take an unscheduled flight over the
bars, and you are as likely to fall into cactus as rock. The terrain is mostly
fine gravel, and at times I feel like I’m trying to corner in kitty litter. I
live for this kind of thing.
It’s an overcast chilly day in the desert outside Phoenix
and most of us are wearing arm and knee warmers when we assemble at 4 pm at the
top of the Super D course. They’ve threatened us with a Le Mans start, which can
be up to a quarter-mile long, but when we see Pat Follett painting the lines on
the pavement about 100 feet apart, we know it won’t be too bad. We’ll go off in
three waves: pros, non-pro men, then non-pro women. We’re to line up behind the
blue line, run to our bikes that we’ve placed behind the red line a hundred feet
away, and head immediately onto the singletrack. As the announcer tells us to be
sure to pick up our own bike, one of my teammates who has brought a heavy bike
in anticipation of a steep technical Super D course gets a gleam in his eye as
he looks around surveying the other bikes. We know what he’s thinking. “Steve,
you have to grab your own bike…” “No, no,” he laughs, “this could work out
really well. I just need to make sure the pedals are the same…”
The pros line up down the road behind the blue line, and
suddenly Donna spins around to me with an impish grin and says, “Laura, c’mon!
Let’s moon ‘em!” I laugh and think this is really funny, but then I realize
she’s serious. I can’t do it. My silliness is limited to things you can tell
your mother about, like wearing a feather boa during a downhill race. Of course,
mere seconds later she finds several accomplices, and when the whistle blows,
the moon comes out! Donna and a half a dozen others drop their shorts and slap
their cheeks, taunting the pros running towards them. Whoops and shouts are
heard amidst the sound of bike cleats pounding on pavement as the pros rush to
their bikes and the race begins.
Three minutes later, the non-pro men go off, then another
three minutes later, it’s our turn. There are perhaps 15 of us women ranging in
age from about 12 to over 40. I know two of the women in my race category, Lisa
and Kim, and I suspect that they’re both stronger, better riders than me. What I
lack in strength and skill, I’ll have to make up for in grit and determination.
We all line up and the countdown begins. I shake my hands
out and shift my weight from one foot to the other. When the whistle blows I
take off in a sprint and am one of the first 5 to reach the bikes and head for
the trail. I’m not on the trail for more than a minute before I’m passed by Lisa
and Donna. Kim has still not passed me, and I push hard trying to keep ahead.
I’m at about mile 2 when I notice her right beside me and hear her say, “On your
left.” Curses! Race etiquette dictates that I yield the trail to her, so I move
the right of the trail and let her by, all the while thinking that I’ll let her
go now and then down the road I’ll charge again and get in front of her. I stay
close on her wheel and pray that she doesn’t slow down unexpectedly. I’m so
close to her I can’t see the trail well, and rely on her body movements to tell
me how to ride. While I have great confidence in her riding ability, I realize
that following this close at this speed is stupid, so I back off just a bit and
look for a chance to pass.
My opportunity comes on the fire road just before we plunge
back onto singletrack. There are four of us in a tight pack vying for the place
out front: Kim on the left, a young girl on her right, I, directly behind Kim,
and another young girl on my right. I see a space between Kim and the girl and
charge, cutting across the weeds that have grown up between the worn tire-tread
patches of the fire road, hoping that none of the weeds are small cactus. I pull
out in front just in time to hit the singletrack that winds down and snakes
through the shallow canyon.
The problem with being in front is that you don’t know how
hard you have to push to stay ahead of your competition. Maybe your competition
is tired, and you can relax a bit, save a little for later… Following the
leader, all you have to do is keep up and wait for the leader to tire, then
charge and pass. But I’ve always performed better when I’m out front, and prefer
to stay ahead if I can. I continue to push hard, knowing that Kim is right there
somewhere close behind me, waiting to pass me the moment I let up. I stay out
front and don’t look back, knowing she’s right there anyway.
Somewhere around mile 8 I struggle to the top of another
climb and feel like my legs will not last much longer, like I’m ready to hurl at
any moment, like I just want this course to end. Then I hear her coming
alongside me. “Passing left,” she says quietly, then adds, “Good job, Laura.” I
manage to wheeze, “Thanks. Good job, you too,” as she pulls ahead of me. I keep
pedaling, repeating to myself, “Circles. Circles. Circles,” as I try to keep my
form good, knowing I tend to ride sloppy when I’m tired. I take a sip of water.
This ain’t over till it’s over, I think, and concentrate on staying on Kim’s
wheel till I have enough strength to charge and pass.
The opportunity comes soon enough, and I see a space, tell
her, “Passing right,” and charge ahead. I stand and pedal for all I’m worth,
knowing that this will probably be my last opportunity to pass and I need to put
as much space between us as possible. I wind through the singletrack that is fun
and flowy, grateful for a chance to recover. The course is coming to an end soon
and all I need to do is push for another 5 minutes. I crest a hill and my heart
sinks to see that the descent is followed by a nasty climb on the other side.
But there are people cheering, and I hear them encourage the girl ahead of me as
she climbs to the top. I hear a man shout, “C’mon it’s the last climb!” and I
charge with everything I have, standing in the saddle and letting out a guttural
growl that prompts the crowd to cheer for me. I roar my way to the top, crest
the hill and continue pedaling towards the finish.
As I approach the finish line, I hear my name called along
with my team name, and then my finishing time. I pedal past my teammates who
have already finished and head to an open space where I can pedal for a few
minutes and cool down. I take a few moments alone to assess the race and think
about the things I did right and the things I can improve on, the things I liked
about the race, and the things I didn’t like.
I sprinted as hard as I could in the run in order to hit
the trail first, which was a good decision. Past that, my race strategy was
good, but unplanned. I didn’t plan to charge and pass just before the
singletrack that made passing difficult if not impossible, but it was a good
strategic decision. I washed out a couple times in those loose kitty litter
turns. I really need to work on my cornering – learning to weight the outside
leg and lean the bike. I didn’t necessarily like that this Super D was more XC
than DH, but it did make the course unique and challenging. And finally the
thing I liked most about this race was having Kim there to challenge me and push
me to limits I would not have pushed myself to alone. That was probably the best
part about it.
At the end of the day, I took a hard fought 4th
place.
race report by Laura Drexler