Orchard Cross at Applecrest Farm, Part 1

I’d had every intention of making this a two race weekend, with the Canton Cup on Saturday, and Orchard Cross on Sunday.  I was looking forward to Canton because last years edition was my very first cyclocross race.  However, I had registered before we had finalized the date for my club’s — NorEast Cycling — race.  No worries, I’ll just get to race twice as much.  Awesome!

After two years of promoting the Amesbury Cross in September, Brian Croteau felt that it was a little too stressful dealing with the town of Amesbury, and we needed to find a real home for the race.  Through connections within the club, he was put in touch with the owners of Applecrest Farm in Hampton Falls.  It is a site with facilities already in place, plenty of parking, and an owner who was more than happy to host an event that promised to bring hundreds of potential customers to his door.  He gave us the run of the property, and we were able to come up with a challenging course in pretty unique surroundings.  It is the perfect place for a cyclocross race.

However, getting up at the crack of dawn to race at Canton, then coming back to set up the course that afternoon, then going into Portsmouth for the Halloween parade that I’d promised some friends I’d attend was a little too much for one day, if I wanted to have any chance of doing well on Sunday.  So I bagged out on Canton, got a decent nights sleep, and headed over to Applecrest on Saturday afternoon to help set up the course.

We got the course staked out pretty quickly, and so we all changed into our ultra-manly lycra and jumped on our bikes to get some practice in before it got dark.  As I came around to the end of the lap, I hit the spot where we had routed the course across a heavily furrowed pumpkin patch, [The pumpkins had been removed, of course] which created a very rough washboard section.  I managed to get all the way across the section, turned right to continue up the course, dug the front wheel into a hole, and promptly crashed.  One of those really awkward low-speed crashes, too.  As I lay on the ground absorbing the cheers and applause of my teammates who were standing just a few feet away, I heard a familiar voice shout, “That was the best thing I could have seen, today!” and looked up to see Dylan McNicholas just getting out of his truck.  Perfect timing.

I found out later in the evening that my crash had done some damage after all, because as I stood watching the Halloween parade in Portsmouth, my right hamstring started to tighten up.  Very painfully.  That’s the thing about low-speed crashes …  you can really get twisted up trying to stop yourself from going down.  I must have hyper-extended my hamstring, and there was also a small bruise right at the top of my calf.  So I went home and iced it up, hoping it would be OK in the morning.

And while icing my leg, I whined about it on Facebook.  Predictably, I was told to man up and race.  Dylan promised threatened to give me a pre-race rub down if that’s what it took.  Personally, I think he was just looking for any excuse to touch my smooth-shaven, yet manly legs, but I’m not here to judge.

Sunday morning we got the course tape up in record time, and I headed out for a practice lap before the first races of the day got started.  My hamstring was still a little tender, but it felt OK while I was pedaling, so I breathed a sigh of relief.  As I waited near the staging area for my race to start, Dylan came riding up, and I stuck out my leg, hiked up my shorts as high as they would go to make it as creepy as possible for him, and shouted, “Start massaging, Biiiiitch!”

"Are we done here? I need to go wash the gay off."

Having successfully made everyone in the starting area supremely uncomfortable, I headed into the staging area and lined up.  I was racing in the Cat 3-4 masters field, which was further broken down into 35+, 45+ and 55+ age groups.  The 35+ field started a minute before me and Cap’n Gassypants.

It’s an informal tradition in any bike race to call the members of the host club up to the front row, so the Cap’n and I were treated to an unobstructed start at the head of the field.  Unfortunately, instead of moving to the middle of the track, we stayed over next to the snow fencing on the right side … y’know, so we could shoot the shit with our fans and get our pictures taken.  This would quickly prove to be a mistake.

We sooo don't belong up here!

We were only half paying attention, and were caught completely off guard when the official, instead of blowing a whistle or shouting “GO”, just kind of casually muttered, “ok … go ahead.”  Half of the field launched right past us on the left, and I frantically clipped in and sprinted for all I was worth.  I actually managed to hit the first turn in about eighth place, and as we sent into the speed sections on the far side of the course, I worked my way up into the top five or six.

Soooooo … this is what it’s like to ride at the head of a race.  Pretty cool!  I’ll put in a hard effort, let it string out, and I should be able to ease up a touch on the second lap to recover a bit, and still be up amongst the leaders.  As I rode along congratulating myself on finally getting a decent start, we came to a tight 180 degree left turn in the mud … and my front wheel went right out from under me.

I just managed to get my left foot down and keep myself from crashing — bashing my right quad into the top tube in the process — but now I was at a dead stop in one of the few mud puddles on the course, and trying to push myself with my left foot to get going again.  As I flailed spastically — looking not unlike Gollum trying to hump a Hobbit … and the Hobbit was really fighting because they were probably in a prison shower although I’m not sure there were prisons in Hobbiton or whether Tolkien ever even touched on the existence of prison rape in Middle Earth and … what the hell was I talking about?

Oh yeah … I was flailing spastically — rider after rider after rider went by me.  I finally got going again, but instead of running in the top five, I was now barely in the top twenty.

"Gotta move up gotta move up gonna throw up gotta move up ..."

So, it was back to my usual strategy:  kill myself working my way through the field to get where I should have been from the get go.  An additional challenge this time was that I was racing against Cat 3s as well as 4s.  The presence of faster riders, combined with a high speed course, made working my way past riders much more difficult.  There was more dicing back and forth with riders — real racing — than in any race I’ve ever done.  It was really fun.  And really exhausting.

I came around to the barriers near the end of the first lap, and entered “The Gauntlet”.  This was where 90% of the spectators were, including a huge number of my friends and teammates.  If there is anything we NorEasters are good at, it’s heckling the ever-loving shit out of our teammates.

My races are usually early enough, and far away enough, that there’s never anyone there to cheer and/or heckle me.  Consequently, I’ve never been subjected to the torrents of abuse that I delight in unleashing on my teammates who race after me.  Not so, today.  There was an army of NorEast jerseys lining the fence — many of whom I had been heckling just a few minutes earlier while they raced — and they unloaded on me as I dismounted for the barriers.

“Stop sucking!”  “You’re embarrassing us!”  “Don’t screw up the barriers, Bob!”  “Why are you going so slow?”  “Bob, you’re doing a great job … of not winning!” Music to my ears!

I almost gave them a great show, too.  As I cleared the second barrier, I started to set the bike down and the rear wheel hit the barrier, throwing me off-balance at the same time that I lost my footing.  I braced myself against the bike to keep from falling down.  So there I am, my chest against the top tube, running/stumbling next to the bike — like a drunken Gollum trying to have another go at that Hobbit — while the crowd roared.

“Don’t fall down, that would break our hearts!”  “Terrible technique!”  “That was the ugliest remount I’ve ever seen!”  “God, you suuuuuuck!”

And that was just the first lap.

Stay tuned for part 2.

The Tale of Captain Gassypants.

I’m still working on the Orchard Cross race report, but it’s so tediously long-winded and self-indulgent that I may not be done with it until the weekend.

In the meantime, I’d like to answer the question I’m inevitably asked when one of my readers meets me for the first time.  Actually, it’s the second question.  The first one is usually, “Why aren’t you wearing any pants?”  Then, while they wait for the police to arrive, they’ll ask me, “Why is your friend/teammate/hetero life-mate called Cap’n Gassypants?”

It’s not because he suffers from copious and debilitating flatulence, although that would be pretty hilarious.  And disgusting.  But mostly hilarious.

We were driving to a time trial back in 2008, and, low on fuel and full on bladder, we stopped at a gas station.  As the Cap’n filled up the truck, I went inside to fill up the toilet.  [Sorry ... TMI?]  After flushing with my foot and using a wad of paper towels to open the door, thus ensuring that I didn’t come in contact with any of the surfaces in this delightfully hygiene free facility, I headed out to the truck and found the Cap’n wiping at the front of his pants and cursing to himself.

What he was upset about was the fact that the entire front of his crotch was soaking wet.  Realizing how upsetting and embarrassing this must have been for him, I very sympathetically remarked, “Dude, if you needed to piss that bad, you could have gone first!”

Apparently, the auto-shutoff … uh … thingy … that makes the pump stop when it’s full wasn’t working, and as he stood there daydreaming about having a really cool nickname, the Cap’n suddenly felt his crotch getting cold, and looked down to see gas spewing out of the tank … all over his pants.

Heh.  Heheheh.  Ha ha ha ha ha!

Anyway, as we drove the final few miles to the event — windows open to let the stench of gasoline out, and the frigid morning air in — I decided that anyone who soaks his own balls with gas deserves my everlasting derision, and declared that henceforth, he would be known as Captain Gassypants.  I promoted him to Captain, because calling him Mister Gassypants would be ridiculous.

He kicked my ass in the time trial that day.  Karma’s a bitch.

Tweet of the week.

“What is it about being blind that makes you want to walk your dog all the time?”

–Michael Creed

Things I now know.

My nephew, Tucker Leary, is a unspeakably talented photographer.

OK … I’ve known for quite some time, now, that he is a photography enthusiast.  C’mon, I’m not completely out of touch with my family.  For example, I’m pretty certain his middle name is Kevin.  Or Karen.  I know it starts with a “K”.

However, I was unaware until tonight that he had his own website showcasing his work.  So I snooped around for a while.  I was impressed, to say the least.  That’s not just familial pride speaking … the kid is good!  Take this self-portrait, for example:

Keith? Kyle? Dont' tell me ... I know this ...

Is that a great photo, or what?  He’s so good, he didn’t even have to touch the camera to take that shot.  Apparently, Tucker has the ability to take pictures using nothing but the power of his mind!

That’s actually a little creepy, now that I think about it.

Granted, he won’t use his prodigious talents to take pictures of me racing my bike, but what are you gonna do?  I guess he’s gotta do what’s best for himse- KEEGAN! His middle name is Keegan!  I knew it started with a “K”.

Ya know, I just realized that my sister gave him three last names.  I’m gonna have to have a talk with her … if I could just remember which one of my sisters is his mother.

Christ, I’m an idiot.

Downeast Cyclocross

I wasn’t able to make it to the first day’s race at the Downeast Cyclocross in New Gloucester, ME, on Saturday, but I did spend the day at work becoming more and more giddy.  Why?  For two reasons.  First, I was going to get to race my bike the next day, and second, it was raining.  All.  Day.  And rain + dirt = mud!

I’ve mentioned before that I like to race my ‘cross bike in the mud.  Even though Sunday’s race was forecast to take place under sunny skies, I knew that after a full day of rain and a couple hundred bikes churning up the course,  it was still going to be muddy.  Hence, my ever increasing level of giddiness.  However, I had no idea just how much mud awaited me.

Sunday dawned bright and … oh, wait, that’s right, it was still dark when I very reluctantly crawled out of my exquisitely warm, cozy, and depressingly female free bed, and hopped in Keith’s car for the drive to the race.  I can’t wait to get good enough to upgrade to Cat 3, so I can race later in the day, and I won’t have to get up so god damned early anymore.

More importantly, there are very few photographers there for the early races, and we bike racers are an unspeakably vain group of people.  So, racing later means more pictures of ME!

Keith had raced on Saturday, and during the drive up he told me, in lengthy and vivid detail, all about how bad the conditions had been.  But I didn’t really appreciate just how nasty the course was until I got kitted up and headed out for a warm up lap.

Haha, look at these idiots! What kind of dumbass rides a bike in the mu-- oh, right.

Click on that photo to get the full effect.  That’s not an isolated muddy spot.  That was what the whole.  fucking.  course was like.  With the exception of one 100 foot paved section where we went through a barn — yes, through a barn — the entire course was covered in a thick, gooey, 4 inch deep layer of slop.

I didn’t even complete one full lap of the course before I decided it was enough.  I didn’t need to see the whole thing, it was all the same.  Mud.  This race was going to be nothing more than a slow grind, and brute force would be just as important as any real skill.  I headed over to the hoses, and tried to clean the half pound of muck that was already coating my bike out of my drive train.  I was really starting to worry that the bike would stop working before I could finish the race.  It wasn’t so much the mud, but the long grass that was mixed with it — which wrapped itself around derailleur pulleys, cables, axles and every other moving part — that threatened to bring the bike to a grinding halt.

The funniest part of that warm-up lap must have been the sight of  me daintily putting my feet down and carefully carrying the bike in a moronic and futile effort to stay clean.  Can’t be starting a race covered in mud!  That wouldn’t be pro!

At this point, my giddiness decided it had had enough of this shit, and wandered over to the barn to pet the cows.  I was on my own from here on in.

I didn’t even try to get a good start, because I knew the race was going to be a crash fest, and I’d be passing a lot of those guys as they picked themselves up out of the mud, so why waste the energy right out of the gate.  Upon reaching the first right hand turn, I was proven right when three guys decided to strike up a rousing game of “Hey, you lay face down in the mud and we’ll throw our bikes at you and then jump on your back” right in front of me, and I had to dismount, step over the course tape, run around the writhing pile of muddy, lycra clad men, step back over the course tape, and run up the next incline before finally remounting, all while half the field went by me.

The race was literally only 30 seconds old, and I was already on foot with the bike on my shoulder, having just had an image that looked like the opening scene of “Mud Wrestlers 2 — Down on the Farm:  Men in Tights” forever seared into my brain.  Awesome.

Oh, it's on, now!

A few turns later, the course entered the wooded section.  It was a slightly uphill sweeping left turn, followed by a short descent into a hard right and back uphill.  The left side of the course through this section was … wait for it … mud, but to the extreme right side, next to the trees, it was still fairly undisturbed.  I had spotted this line during my warm-up lap and figured everyone would be riding here, as it was pretty obvious — to me, anyway — that it was the ideal line through this section.  However, I was amazed to see almost the entire pack, with my teammates Keith and Tim stuck in the middle of it, squirming their way through the muck to the left while I took my sweet and apparently-not-as-obvious-as-I-thought-it-was line on the right, and in the space of about 75 meters, I passed half of the field!

I used this method through all of the wooded sections.  Staying to the extreme right or left and riding as close to the trees as I dared was the best way to find decent traction and avoid the worst of the muck.  I certainly wasn’t the only one doing it, but I was surprised at how many riders seemed unwilling to use the whole course, and instead, just tried to power their way up the middle.

Out of the woods, it was a different story.  The half of the course that ran through the fields was nothing but muck.  There was no quick line, just put your head down, try to keep the bike moving in a straight line, and try to keep the pedals turning.  The last hundred meters or so before the finishing straight was so bad that I was shouldering the bike and running with it.  On flat ground.

Let me repeat that:  I was running and passing guys who were riding their bikes, on flat ground!  Keith summed it up best:

“There’s fun mud, and then there’s stupid mud.  This was stupid mud!”

And so it continued for two more laps.  Yes, we were going so slow that we only managed to complete three laps in the allotted time.  As I came through the last few corners, I heard the announcer … uh … announcing that the winner of the 4 Master’s field was just crossing the finish line, so I quickly started looking to see how far from the finish I was, and how many riders were ahead of me.  It didn’t look like many to my oxygen starved brain, so I gunned it to catch the one last rider I’d been reeling in for half a lap.  I don’t know if he was one of the leaders and had finally imploded, or if I was lapping him, but he didn’t have much left when I mercilessly passed him a few turns from the end.

"I will crush your spirit! Your anguish sustains me!"

I crossed the line convinced that I had just scored a top five.  However, I was probably deceived by the fact that the Cat 4 and Cat 4 Masters fields were running at the same time, so quite a few of the riders I passed were not actually guys I was competing against.  I wound up 9th in the 4 Masters, which isn’t bad, but considering there were only 27 finishers, it’s not nearly as impressive as it sounds.  I’ll take it, though.

We spent the next hour trying to clean ourselves and our bikes, which wasn’t easy.  There was so much mud.  Everywhere.

Looka mah muddy bike!

As we sat, exhausted, drinking beer — at ten in the morning — and staring blankly at our filthy bikes, Keith suddenly broke the silence and brilliantly summarized the whole experience when he muttered:

“This race was fuckin’ stupid!”

That may have been true, but I still had fun.  Sort of.  At least I didn’t sit on my balls this time.  That in itself was a victory.

“I saved your bowl, Old Man Jenkins!”

Just about everyone has seen the “Drunkest guy ever” video by now, but this version, done as a silent movie, is the funniest thing I’ve seen in a while.

My stomach hurts from laughing at the last caption.

Casco Bay Cyclocross

With no Verge Series races in New England this past weekend, there were no less than four races to choose from for cross riders who didn’t want to take a weekend off.  Cap’n G wasn’t racing this weekend, so Keith and I decided to head up to Portland, ME for the inaugural Casco Bay CX.  The venue was a beautiful hillside park overlooking Casco Bay.  Lots of long grassy speed sections, broken up with numerous hairpins which forced you to be continually braking and then accelerating again, two steep run-ups,  one set of barriers, and a couple of high speed descents, one of which was about three feet wide on the edge of a very steep drop-off.  It was a surprisingly tough and fun course.

The turnout was predictably low, this being a first year event competing against three other established races.  The men’s 4 field, which Keith and I would be racing, had close to forty entrants, quite a few of whom were doing their first cross race.  We were the first race of the day, and despite the brilliant sunshine and blue skies, it was freakin’ cold at that time of the morning.  We got there in plenty of time to get in several laps of the course, thereby allowing me to do something I haven’t done yet this season:  start a race with a good feel for the course and properly warmed up.

I got a good start, and as we hit the first turn, I experienced another first:  hitting the dirt in the front group.  As we got onto the paved section at the top of the course, a blown shift allowed a gap to open in front of me, and Keith, who had also gotten a good start, was sitting pretty up ahead, riding away with the leaders.

I resisted the urge to gas it to try to close the gap, because I knew that when we got to the technical, serpentine part of the course it would more than likely come back together.  As we dove into the first of the S-turns, I heard “C’mon, Bob!” over my shoulder, and Lee Wassilie came by me on his single speed like I was standing still.  He would go on to win the race, probably one of his last as a Cat 4.

By the end of the first lap, I was back in the lead group.  As I started up the finishing pavement, I looked up and, to my surprise, there by the side of the road, waving at me like Forrest Gump with a big grin on his face, was Cap’n Gassypants, yelling “YOU SUUUUUUUUCK!”.

I yelled back “I KNOOOOOW!” and felt strangely happy to know that there would be someone heckling me for the rest of the race.

I got around Keith at the start of the second lap, and discovered another fact of racing at the front of the field.  It’s harder to catch riders here!  I’ve gotten used to being at the back among the slower riders, and being able to catch people left and right as I worked my way to the front.  This time, I was up among guys my own speed, so it was muuuuch harder to close gaps, and when I did, it was muuuuch harder to get away from riders once I’d passed them.

I just ran up this friggin' hill! Now I gotta go back down?

After the second lap, I found myself alone between two groups of riders.  I didn’t know where I was in the running order, but I knew I was doing pretty well.  I was pondering the possibility of a top ten finish as I remounted after the barriers, and in that moment of inattention, I threw my leg over the saddle rather awkwardly … and sat on one of my balls.

Well, not so much “sat”, as “smacked one of my tender bits against the side of the saddle just as my weight came down on it”.  However you want to describe it, it felt like someone had just punched me in the nuts and stomach at the same time.  First I wanted to puke, then I wanted to crawl under a bush and curl up in the fetal position for an hour or two, then I wanted to puke some more.

But I’m an idiot a cyclocross racer, so I did what any idiot cyclocross racer would do … I kept going.  Granted, it was kind of hard to see where I was going because my eyes were watering copiously — no, I was not crying — but I was not about to give up any of the track position I had worked so hard to get.  Suffice to say, though, that riding cross with sore nuts sucks out loud.

Luckily, the discomfort only lasted for about one lap, and I was really pushing it to catch a group of four riders up ahead. Mike Golay of  SMCC was at the tail end of that group, and he became my rabbit.  I buried myself for a lap and a half and finally caught him as we started the last lap.

In your face, Mike! Now excuse me while I throw up.

Catching him had been one thing, but he wasn’t just going to let me go without a fight, and he glued himself to my rear wheel.  And he stayed on my wheel.  As we turned onto the grass, I saw my teammate, Rami — who had started behind me — up ahead.  It took me a second to realize that the reason he was now in front of me was that I was experiencing yet another first … I was actually lapping someone!  Man, I’m doing great today!

My battle with Mike continued for most of the lap.  He matched me turn for turn.  Every time he shifted gears, or braked hard, it was like he was saying, “I’m still here … you’re not dropping me … I’m going to pass you back any second!” Dicing with him for that last lap was the most fun I’ve had on a cross bike.  It wasn’t until the barriers that I was finally able to get a little gap, and looking over on the hairpin after the barriers, I saw that Keith was just a couple of spots back, and closing the gap to us.  With less than a half lap to go, I just drilled it as hard as I could for the rest of the race.  I caught a couple more lappers, one of whom was so unnerved by my squealing front brakes that he pulled over and stopped!

Who says piss poor bike set-up can’t be used to your advantage?

I crossed the line in 7th place, with Keith close behind in 10th. The fourth NorEaster in the race, Evan, got 22nd — on a single speed — and Rami, finished his first race in 32nd … not last!  This was a great event, a super fun course, and hopefully it will be back next year.

Oh, and my balls are fine.  In case you were wondering.

Photos by Jeff Scher.  Go to his site.  Buy his photos.  That is all.

Quote of the day.

“By using that song [Sammy Hagar's "Mas Tequila" as his victory anthem in 2010] in conjunction with the fingerbang hand gesture, (Alberto Contador) will now be able to emit the douche-wattage of a thousand Michael Balls and unleash a supernova of smarm with each podium appearance.”

– Bike Snob NYC

Humility personified.

Bet you can’t guess what this post is going to be about!

So I’m racing cyclocross last Wed night at the final round of the UNH training series.  And I won.  I killed.  I crushed.  I took my competitor’s very will to live, and pitilessly trampled it underfoot.  All six of them.

What’s that, you say?  Those guys are my friends?  Baaaah!  Friendship has no place in a cyclocross race!  It’s dog eat dog, kill or be killed.  The other riders are my enemies, and must be emasculated at every opportunity, must be he-bitch man-slapped without mercy, without remorse.  Sportsmanship is for losers!  They must all be shown who the alpha-male is, and never be allowed to forget it!  Verily, I say, to all those who would challenge me:  Bask in blinding glow of my awesomeness!  Bath in the effervescent mist of my magnificence!  Humble yourselves before me!  VICTORY IS MINE!

I won a whoopee pie!

Sadly, there was no one there with a camera to record for posterity the moment when I — for the first, and perhaps only time in my life — crossed the finish line in a bike race with my arms raised in victory.  But it looked something like this:

"Artist's" rendition

How the three women at the finish line were able to witness this overwhelming display of power, skill and grace, and yet give absolutely no outward sign of the animal desire that my performance must surely have ignited in them, is as perplexing to me as I’m sure it must be to you.

Women … huh, fellas?

Things I Now Know.

Spider poop is white.

Let me back up.

I was at work today, absent mindedly staring at a spider crawling around on the bike I was working on — because I was exhausted from lack of sleep because I got up at 5 a.m. to go to a race in Portland and in order to get the morning off I had to promise to come straight to work after the race so I came straight to work after the race and now I didn’t want to do anything but stand there staring at bugs crawling around on the bike in my work stand so that’s why I’m staring at a stupid spider at this point in the story if you must know — when it suddenly paused in it’s pointless wanderings, held it’s abdomen up, and two little white specks appeared where one would assume a spider’s browneye would be, then dropped to the floor.

Did you ever have one of those moments when you’re not sure you’ve seen what you’ve just seen?  This was one of those moments.

All I could think was, “Uh … did … did that spider just drop a deuce?”

Yep … sure did.  And the spider’s poop was white.  Now I know.

And now, so do you.  You’re welcome.