As I drove to Londonderry, NH for the Northeast Velo Cross, I had no illusions of improving upon, or even coming close to repeating, my 11th place finish at this race last year. If you’ve been following my season — and if you are … WHY? — I’ve made it abundantly clear that my fitness is in the toilet. Mostly, this is because I’m unspeakably lazy when it comes to getting myself out on my bike whenever I have the opportunity to train.
BUT … I’ve been having more fun this season than ever, no doubt because my busy new life as a dad and husband has given me a new appreciation for how therapeutic playing in the dirt on my bike can be. I feel like I’ve earned the playtime, which makes racing that much more enjoyable.
Anyhoo, after injuring myself in the parking lot, my already low expectations hit rock bottom. Today would be a day of industrial strength suckitude.
And that’s … okay.
The course? Awesome! See for yourself:
I struggled, I flailed, I got passed. A lot.
With three to go, as I played in the BMX track — catching sweet air off of all the jumps — I passed a couple of spectators who immediately yelled, “C’mon Mahk!” Since my name is not “Mahk”, I stole a quick glance over my shoulder, which revealed none other than Mark McCormack bearing down on me. Knowing that I suck, and that Mahk the Shahk is the opposite of me, I quickly deduced that I was about to be lapped. So I moved over, Mark and his lead group companions roared by me like I was in reverse, and three laps to go instantly became two laps to go.
Since my legs felt like cement at this point, I decided that one less lap was a good thing.
On the last lap, I was on empty. Heading into the run up, I shouldered the bike, started jogging up that nasty climb, and halfway up, my legs … quit. That hill broke me. I started walking. Then I looked up at the guy who’d been standing there, alone, at the top every lap, offering encouragement to every racer grinding their way up the hill.
It was quiet. We were the only two people there. We made eye contact, and I’m sure he could see that I’d hit my limit. He didn’t yell, he wasn’t frantically ringing a cowbell … he just looked at me and in a calm, reassuring voice said, “Don’t give up. C’mon, you can do it. Keep those legs moving!“
I started running, again. I had to. I couldn’t let this guy down. So I started running. And he kept encouraging me, “That’s it, run it out! Great job!“
I was gasping for breath too hard to thank him. But if by some chance he reads this:
Thank you, Stranger At The Top Of The Run-up! You didn’t know me from Adam, but you wouldn’t let me quit. You gave me encouragement when I needed it most. And I am grateful.
I managed to finish the lap, raising my hands to the heavens as I crossed the line. By some miracle, I didn’t finish last. Two people had worse days than me, so I can’t complain. But one more lap, and I would have been DFL.
I’m really glad I got lapped.
