As I drank a couple of beers late last Saturday afternoon I somehow convinced myself to go ahead and enter the Barry-Roubaix’s 36 mile race, a distance– at the time of entering–roughly 15 miles longer than any ride I had done in 2014 due to the relentless and brutal winter we’ve had. It would also be only my second ride not to be completed on fat bike this calendar year. “This could be bad for me, but other than a few out-of-staters, everyone else will be in the same frigid, snow, ice and shit filled boat as me,” I thought as entered my credit card information and took the final draw from my pint of Founder’s Imperial Stout. So let it be done… it’s God’s will… it is what it is. Pffft! Whatever, it’s just bike ridin’.
And with that, I now give you yet another race ride report, in a long history of Soiled Chamois race reports, that didn’t need to be written…
As the week progressed I started feeling slightly better about my decision to race. I had a nice ride on the Pugsley that Sunday, a 20 mile ride in woods aboard the same robust and girthly bike on Tuesday, a 32 mile ride on snowless dirt roads via my Jake The Snake on Friday and a couple of days in the gym thrown in (to work on my pecs). I knew I wouldn’t be fast (even in top fitness that was never a worry) but it seemed that my goal of not making a complete, sweating gravy from my fat face, ass of myself might be within my grasp.
Race Day: The Shit
I was up way too early Saturday morning to see an unwelcomed inch of wet snow on the ground, coffee up, eat some food, make sure I had my standard two to six “movements” and prepare for the 2 hour drive down to Hastings, Michigan.
Before leaving I grabbed a small roll of TP, just in case a pit stop was needed… and it was… sort of.
About an hour in to the drive, I decided to avoid the beauty that is a race venue port-o-john and take advantage of a highway rest stop’s slightly cleaner bathroom. This was a good move. Well, except for when after the dook was dropped and I reached for the toilet paper and found none. Shit! [no pun intended] The stall on my right was occupied, but the one on my left was open. I decided to do a quick shuffle next door. As soon as I opened my door some trucker dude swooped in to take it. FUCK! Then I remembered the T.P. I grabbed from home out in the car. Here goes nothing… I clenched the cheeks together to prevent soiling, walked out to fetch my paper and quickly returned to the restroom to get things done properly. I was slightly disheartened to walk in see that there were actually TWO mens rooms in the building. DOH!!! I could have saved myself some glute-stress and some potential soilage.
With that drama done and the sun now up, I needed to make time to get Hastings and find a parking space amongst the thousands of bike geeks descending upon the small Michigan town.
Once to Hastings, I quickly picked up my race packet and set off in search of parking. A few trips around town left me nothing but frustrated and ready to drive two hours home. “How fucking early do I need to leave to get here and find a space” I muttered to myself as I continued my tour of the town. I spied a bank lot that was charging for spaces and I THINK donating the proceeds to something. I checked my pockets and came up with enough to obtain a space. Damn, the cost of the race was starting to add up, but at least I had a space and could finally start getting ready.
After a couple spins around town, I found myself in the cattle-pen like wave grid of the start line waiting to head off onto the muddy roads of Barry County.
Race Day: Go Time
After my oddly mixed wave of old heads and juniors received last instructions the P.A. announcer began the countdown: “20 seconds…. 15 seconds…. 10 seconds…” BOOM!!! Some poor bastard’s tire blows off his rim and sprays sealant all over nearby racers, leaving them looking like they race for Team Bukkake. I felt so bad for the dude (I don’t doubt for a second that he still finished ahead of me), but despite the P.A. announcer being sidetracked by a moment of sympathetic laughter, the countdown was still on ” 3, 2, 1… GO!” And off we went into the chilly spring air.
Race Day: Race-ishness
This was my fourth Barry-Roubaix, having done race distances of 35 in 2011, 62 in 2012 & 2013, and 36 miles this year. However this was the first time I chose to race my cross bike rather than my hard tail mountain bike. I was sort of anxious to see how the Jake would handle the various conditions a race like the Barry-Roubaix throws at a racer.
The first miles of pavement and damp dirt roads had me pretty happy to on the cross bike and I felt good about my decision as I made my way past riders aboard mountain bikes. However my first encounter with a series of bomb-blast dirt road pot holes, crowded with nervous racers had me less than thrilled to be forced into poor line choices atop 35c tires. Then on the first real climb when my front derailleur, clogged with five months of crusty mud that I was too lazy to clean off, refused to shift me into my 36 and forced me to cross the chain and power up in my big ring, I was even less thrilled. Thankfully my derailleur eventually started working, and after a few encounters I was feeling more confident about the pot holes and occasional deep mud.
Just when I started to find my rhythm, a junior racer who stopped to pick up the un-needed giant lobster gloves he dropped, stepped out in front of me resulting in me and the Jake body checking him. Thankfully we, and our bikes, were just fine. Onward…
I settled in and did my thing… despite the chilly temps and muddy roads, this was going to be a nice ride. AND there would be beer at the end. Not “free” beer like the good ol’ days but beer none the less (stupid state laws!)
For the most part, the cross bike was a joy to ride, especially on the pavement. But I even managed all the muddy dirt road climbs without issue. It was apparent that it had been some time since I had put out such efforts, but it was all done with minimal suffering (I credit the gabillion leg presses done in the gym this winter).
I am not going to lie, there was abso-fucking-lutely no way I wished I would have done the 62 mile race. I was physically and more importantly mentally DONE. I was wet, cold, and just fucking DONE with people. And I am OK with that. I’ve done races three to five times as long and survived… it’s just that suffering is not the joy it used to be. I am glad I did the Barry-Roubaix again. It’s an awesome race, put on by a great dude, but I think I may be done for a year or two. Sort of that whole “been there, done that” thing. There’s nothing wrong with any of it, it’s just that racing with three-thousand people is not where I am mentally right now. There is more racing to be done this year, I just don’t know how much more I care to do with more than a couple of hundred people. Having said that, that doesn’t mean that I give up on racing or won’t force myself to take part in the Ore To Shore in late summer. It’s just that as a racer, er.. um… a RIDER I continue to evolve.
For the record, I finished 35th out of 82 in my class and I think my average mph was better in year’s past on my mountain bike. Long live the mountain bike.
Two races down in 2014 and a handful more to go. Stay tuned… or don’t.
Oh look, it’s Danielle Musto blowing away more than half the field on a fat bike…
All photos are by me. Yeah that’s right, I “race” with a camera in my pocket. Fuck it.
By the way, I’m sure there are a ton of mistakes in this report, the hell with it. No one reads this shit anyway.
Later.