The
Clydesdale That Could
Having not been an avid mountain
biker for more than a few months I wanted to try and up my game by signing up
for a local bike race. Now, I have been
out and seen some of the other riders gallivanting along on the courses and I could
just tell that I was in better shape than them and could easily beat some, if
not most, in a race. So, I decided to
put my money where my mouth is and sign up for a series of four races called
Wednesday’s at Wakefield. There were
several different categories available, Junior, Beginner, Expert, Masters, and
Clydesdale (200 lbs. and over). Being
the brut of a man that I am, pushing a solid 216 lbs., I thought why not, let’s
give it a whirl. So I skip the Beginner
level entirely and sign up for the race in the Clydesdale category and begin my
training.
I ride the course weekly, getting
better and better, faster and faster. I
am able to handle turns with lighting speed, push through climbs like my legs
have been made for nothing else in the world but to ride a bike. Having come from an athletic background, I
like to think of myself as a rather fit individual. I have participated in many types of
organized sports, baseball, basketball, football and now I can add mountain
biking to the list, another notch in the old sports belt. Week after week I ride in the sweltering heat
with my camelback, my mini first aid kit (learned that lesson the hard way), my
Leatherman and my bike multi tool. Let
me tell you, I am prepared for anything.
If anything I am probably too prepared, come to think if it, I may even
be able to ride a bit faster with less equipment strapped to my back. Regardless, I ride all the local trails to
prepare for my new racing endeavor.
For each ride I pack the car up with
all my gear, my new riding shorts, my iPod shuffle, and a much needed granola
bar for my pre-workout carb load, which is really just pure sugar but I like to
pretend that it helps. I venture out
into the great outdoors and ride anytime day and night for at least a good
solid two hours. Each week I begin to
understand just how well I am going to do in this race series. There is no way I can lose, I am not aiming
for first place but I know without a shadow of doubt that I will finish in the
top percentile. I mean how hard can it
be, it’s riding a bike? Kids do it all
day long, old folks on the boardwalks in their little beach cruisers pass by
without a care in the world. I am a man
and an athlete and can conquer anything that comes my way. As Diddy once said “can’t nobody take my
pride, can’t nobody hold me down, Oh no!”
As we get closer to race day, the
anticipation continues to grow and grow until I can barely contain the joy that
consumes me. I talk about the race with
all my friends, coworkers, and family. I
buy a new helmet, racing gloves, and chain oil just because I can. The night before the race, I drift off to
that state of sleep one gets to when the greatest day of his life starts just
as soon as the sun rises. I know I am
unstoppable and I have done everything I could do to be prepared for this
race.
The day of the race I wake up early
(I mean really I barely even slept), I prepare a home cooked breakfast of
bacon, eggs and a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice. Breakfast being the most important meal of
the day I want to make sure that I feed the machine that will pedal me to
victory in just a few short hours. I get to check in a bit early, I have never
done this before so really I have no idea what to expect. I ride over to the check in booth and proudly
claim my spot on Team Clydesdale. I am
told by the race coordinator/volunteer/racer’s wife/whoever she is that there
are 15 to 20 others registered in this same category. Now this is exciting, that’s even more people
for me to beat! Because I am early, I
ride around a bit to warm up and get the blood flowing to the stems. I am amazed at how many people are
there. All ages, shapes, and sizes. As we approach the start time all the
different riders line up according to the category for which they signed
up. First are the Juniors, then the
Beginners (female then male), next the Experts (again separated by gender),
then Masters and of course the ever valiant Clydesdales. Being a Clydesdale they assume we are slow so
we are the last of all the heats to start the race. Ha, what do they know?
It is around this point that I start
to get a little confused. There are only
six riders lined up with me. Six! And that includes me… Where are the 15 others that will bow to
defeat as I ride to victory? I think
that there has to be some kind of mistake, and then a few more thoughts start
to process in my mind. I am wearing a
green baseball style 3/4 length sleeve shirt and of course my new riding shorts
(my biking uniform). I have my gloves,
camelback and I am set. And yet the
massive Thoroughbred to my left is decked out in full racing gear. Red racing jersey, matching red bike shorts
(you know the kind, super tight, shows the goods, maybe a bit too much) and
clip in pedals. Then to my right, much
of the same except dude is decked out in a completely pink one piece bib. Pink!
I am thinking what the world is this guy wearing? I can beat a guy wearing pink, I mean who
thinks they can’t beat a guy in all pink, it’s not even a thought it’s just assumed
as fact. Now as I look around at these
guys I realize that I am the only one who is not wearing actual racing
clothes. Gradually from this moment on
my ego starts to slowly deflate like a kid holding a balloon with the end
stretched out so it kind of screeches.
After so many weeks of confidence, doubt enters into my mind. Now I don’t think you need to have all the
best, top of the line equipment to win a bike race but it does help to look
good. I look like I just walked out of a
Grateful Dead concert compared to these guys.
As this doubt starts to take hold I try and compose myself, remember my
training and emit a sense of confidence.
Guys can sense this confidence, the pheromones maybe, who knows but I
was pushing it out of my pores as best I could.
Now it’s just a few more seconds until the start of the race.
BAM!! The gun fires and we are off. The feeling that came over me next was
immediate, faster than the sound of the gun was the rest of the deflation of
that balloon, more like a POP. While I
am off pedaling to my little heart’s content the five other guys take off like
a freight train on a crash course to hell.
Within the first 10 seconds of the race they are gone and it’s just me
and my bike. I know right away that I am
going to lose to every one of these guys.
Because we were the last heat to start there is just no chance of me
ever catching someone and there is just no chance of me being able to beat
anyone as I am literally the last guy on the course. Then is occurs to me that while all the
Clydesdales have to race three laps around the course, the Experts and Masters
have to race four laps. YES! I still have a chance. I am now at peace with the fact that I am not
going to win, it’s more of a peace that was forced on me but hey I am adaptable
and can accept when I am defeated. Now
my goal is to beat one of these four lappers even though they have an extra lap
to do, well that was my thought anyway.
We can all dream, right? Really I
was just trying my hardest not to be the last guy to cross the finish
line. After the first lap I am feeling
slightly more confident and then I hear “PASSING ON YOUR LEFT”. Damn it, I am already being lapped. What the hell? So I pull over a bit and let Expert number
one pass on the left. Not to worry the Experts
started a few minutes earlier than the hefty Clydesdales so again I push with
one and only one thought in my mind, don’t be last place. Please, please, please don’t be last
place. Two, three, five…eight…more
people pass me. It’s like I am a broken
down car on the side of the road and everyone is in a big damn hurry to make it
to Grandma’s for turkey dinner. Everyone
is passing me, it’s bad, really bad.
Then who do I see? None other
than Thoroughbred Red passes me.
Dumbfounded is the only word that comes to mind, I am only halfway
through the race and one of the riders who started right next to me, passes
me. He literally is riding twice as fast
as I am. Twice. As. Fast… Confidence at this point is gone, out the
window, caput. I even consider calling
it quits after lap number two just to save myself the embarrassment of being
last place. But I think to myself, I am
a man, a Clydesdale, push onward soldier, finish this damn race. Then the most devastating blow of all, Mr.
Pink is a blur out of my peripheral vision as he too passes me like I stopped
to get off the bike and tie my shoe. But
there was no shoe tying taking place I was still pedaling my little keister off
like I stole this bike.
Regardless I push on to the finish
line, at this point it’s starting to get late and there are less and less
racers passing me, I think to myself, finally…
So with a total race time of 1 hour and 20 minutes I cross the finish
line. Success!! My first mountain bike race is complete. One small issue, there is hardly anyone at
the finish line. Where is the mass of
spectators, where are the other riders waiting to congratulate the
finishers? Then the last bit of
heartbreak settles in when the race officials start to pack up as soon as I cross
the line. I know what has happened but I
ask the question anyway.
“Am I the last one to cross the
finish line?”
“The very last one indeed” he
responds. Like a bug on a windshield I
am crushed. After all these weeks of
training, after all these sleepless nights of absolute anticipation, I am
Jack’s utter defeat. I am dead
last.
“You know they have a beginner level
where you only have to do two laps?” said the race official as I am walking
with my head hung low pushing my two wheeled chariot down to the car.
“Yeah, I saw that, may have bit off
more than I could chew on this one.” I said.
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