Providence Day 1. 84 Degrees. Hot 'Cross Buns.

What you see here is what we got all weekend:  hot sun and hard-packed dirt.
The concrete "temple" in the background served as the podium.

Providence.  

Let's say this weekend's experience wrote the first page of an entire new chapter in my understanding of 'cross.  

Bob and I left Newfield at 5:00 am on the dot Saturday morning and drove straight to Roger Williams Park in Providence.  I still hadn't fought off what had now become sinus congestion plus slight continued sore throat.  When we finally arrived, I just looked and looked at the course, and at the masters riders flying up, down, around and everywhere.  Amazing twists, turns, ups and downs, swooped all over the place.  Four forced dismounts each sat at the top or bottom of short hills:  concrete stairs, temporary wood stairs, traditional barriers, temporary wood stairs again.  Instead of this year's Kirkland or Ommegang mud pits, this course mixed hard-packed dark brown dirt with thin short grass, small patches of sandy soil, a short road section (start/finish), and two or three curb-hops assisted by carefully placed boards.  I felt a sudden chill realizing how fast this course would ride.  

 Bob and I set up the Stan's NoTubes tent and got out the bikes.  Mary McConneloug rolled by and came over for a quick visit.  I confessed to having a few jitters.  Actually more like a truckload.  Mary laughed and said it was all part of the game, that you have to just go with it all and that usually once you're off you can just focus on the race, it's all about riding in the moment.  Funny-Margaret said the exact same thing to me earlier in the week.  Mary looked great-last time Bob and I saw her, we'd all been at Windham and she had struggled with as-yet-undiagnosed Lyme disease.


I was jittery mostly because I didn't know what to expect.  But then again I did. I expected an experience I'd never had before and come on, who wouldn't be excited about that?  Sure, you can say that I did an "elite" women's cross race down at Whitmore's Super Cross Cup last November.  Yes. With all of eleven competitors.  Fine.  Let's try a field of 40 and see how it shakes out...




In addition to a few jitters, I also got a *bit wound up.  This probably had to do with the atmosphere at the race.  Did I mention the atmosphere?  Spectators and racers everywhere, in the beer garden, roaming the bike expo and sale, buying food.  Tiny children wubbling around on Skuuts.  Small children riding the tiniest little Redlines I'd ever seen.  Cowbells, cowbells, cowbells. 

Mary McConneloug stops over to visit. Yes I look funny
 in my jersey.  Club fit medium is rather large.

We had more pre-race prep than usual:  get two bikes ready instead of one, sign in, draw a number for starting grid position since I had no UCI points, pick up a pit pass for Bob, get oriented with the pit and stake out a box, RIDE THE COURSE.  I stood sandwiched between Arly Kemmerer and Laura Van Gilder in the check-in line, feeling distinctly out of place.  Mo Bruno-Roy rolled by.  Sans plastic license, I handed over my printed authorization to ride.  I drew a number from the box.  Twenty-four.  Good or bad number? I asked.  "I don't know," was the answer.  "It depends on what the other riders pull."

Time flew by.  I warmed up on one of 20 trainers provided by Saris under a tent and still had time for a few last laps before the announcer called us.  While on the trainer I cheered for Peter Ozolins since he came from our neck of the woods. He flipped me the bird.  Next time he came around I yelled that he'd ride faster if he stopped flipping people off. 

All weekend, the famous Richard Fries provided the announcing.    This guy got me wound up just listening to him, forget racing. 

One set of hot 'cross buns.

"ELITE. WOMEN. TO. STAGING.  

  ELITE. WOMEN. TO. STAGING.  

  ELITE. WOMEN. TO. STAGING."   


Man, I couldn't take this kind of excitement, couldn't wait to watch this race.  Oh, WAIT.   I was RACING.   Bob waited in the pits.  The officials called us up one by one, by number and name, and one of them checked our tire width and let us roll forward into the starting grid. They warned us that under UCI rules, taking a beer hand-up meant instant disqualification. Fourth row for me.  For future reference:  twenty-four is NOT a good number. 

More hot 'cross buns.

The start countdown began at two minutes, then one minute then the thirty-second warning. WHISTLE.  I didn't clip in that quickly. Got moving and stayed in position in the field, slowly crept forward a little in the tunnel of wind and noise and screams and cowbell, and then bumped up over an angled, board-covered curb into turn 1. Bam. First crash, right in front of me. Into the tape I went, but got around it. Barely. Everyone came out fighting and scrapping for position. I learned quickly you don't pass on the inside unless you do it FAST and be ready to defend your space. Riders here chopped you hard in the corners if you didn't move fast enough. It wasn't anything personal. When you play a new game it means different rules. I moved up two spots going a little faster around the outside. THWACK. Another rider went into a post. I got around her but the girl right behind her didn't. I dodged her back wheel too as it came up and sideways at me.

Coming down into the first dismount, going downhill into concrete stairs going up-clumsy dismount for me and a squawk behind me...uh yes, I WAS a little wild whipping that bike up quick in my eagerness to get up the stairs.    Then running on the concrete road again to remount.  Not the prettiest but I got the job done.  The internal self-critique had turned down to almost mute today.  I had no time to analyze everything I did or didn't do well.  I'd have time to reflect later.  The speed stayed high.  Daylight began to open between riders.  Two or three passed me and I tried to catch on and dig into a questionably sustainable pain level and focused, focused on the corners and focused on smooth, efficient on the stairs and barriers.  I thought most of the field, probably three quarters at least, was in front of me.  Time to try and pick off a few.  I worked on 3 or 4 over the next lap.  Nobody went backwards without fighting back.  Small passing battles developed.   I got onto a new wheel as we came through the curves to the pits, down past the pits, down into a right-hand turn from grass to gravel.  Determined to pass on the upcoming gravel straightaway, I came within inches of her back wheel through the corner.  She lost her front wheel and slammed down.  Hard. That had to hurt.  My veer to the left sent me into bad territory-deeper gravel mixed with grass and loose dirt and my front wheel started sliding.  I pedaled harder and found front traction again and the resulting extra jolt of adrenaline sped me through the straightaway. I worked on the next rider up in front.  I don't remember much from there to the middle of Lap 3.   Except the wall of screaming and cowbell at the barriers.  Beer cups.  Dollar bills held out at me.  Somebody behind me grabbed some.  The spectators went wild.


Lap 3.  Two to go.  I had one group and a couple individual riders behind me.  Downhill swoop curving to the left, fast, coming up to wood stairs.  Move those feet fast.  Running the stairs, riders almost onto me.  Up, keep running uphill a little way, back on the bike.  No resistance on the cranks,  still uphill, I lose momentum, forced off the bike.  Chain is off.  DAMN.  Brain-dead haze.  What do I do-what do I do.  Shift it. Pick it up, push the pedal.  It's on.  Riders passing, three four five six.  I'm bleeding positions, bleeding time.  Run. Roll the bike. Get on.  GO.  Another rider stops, steps under the tape, she's giving up.  Is it that bad? No it's not, it's not for me.  I'm going on.  I've lost my sense of pace, forgotten how I cornered before I stopped for the chain.  Ride another lap.  I pass Bob in the pits and tell him I dropped my chain.  He immediately thinks I need a bike change.  No, I'm fine.  Sort of.  I'm alone and without anyone around me to chase or run from, I'm backing off in the corners and starting to look at things.  Jenny Ives comes up on my tail.  Jenny passes me.  I pass Jenny.  And so Jenny and I generally give each a hard time for the rest of the race.  Thanks, Jenny.  She digs in and holds me well off at the line, though damn it, I'm trying with all I've got left.  That isn't much. 
And that's a wrap.  All I have to do, all I can do, is ride around slowly, keep pedaling.  I'm wheezing and it hurts to breathe.  My lungs have declared open war on me.  My voice has been replaced by that of a 70-year-old 3-pack-a-day smoker.  I finish most of another lap, slowly.  The hecklers at the barriers still go crazy for me.  "You guys are the best," I wheeze at them.  They swell visibly with pride and lift their beers in salute.


Mary McConneloug took second to Laura Van Gilder.   Laura rode Mary's wheel and waited her chance then came around and jumped her.


We packed up, I changed, we strolled around the venue and looked at the bike expo.
People had all kinds of wonderful things to sell.  And plenty more we enjoyed just seeing.

Words failed me.  Please, if you think of a good caption, put it in the comments section on this post.

                                     Someone, somewhere, is going to meet this bike and fall in love.

Maureen "Mo" Bruno-Roy's pit bike.  Yes, you read that correctly.  This is her PIT BIKE.

Bob and I checked into our motel, then found a stellar dinner at the Crow's Nest in Warwick.  I ordered hot soothing New England clam chowder (the REAL stuff) for my throat and some amazing lobster salad.   I had a glass of port more than I should have (I shouldn't have had any).  But I had to calm down somehow, tired as I already felt.  Otherwise I wouldn't be able to sleep, thinking about riding through the incredible rush again on Day 2.  I realized that I could do better than 32nd out of 40, though I'm actually proud of that result.  Even without the fitness of the girls I raced, I felt I lacked experience more than anything else.  What else did I learn?  

Well...

1.  Conscious thought is useless and slow.  Don't even bother.  Only gets in the way.

2.  I can too corner.  If I don't think about it and I'm battling right and left to pass.  When I'm alone, cornering is scary so I slow down and look at everything.

3.  Even though I wasn't last, I'd rather be last in a UCI race than win another 3/4 ever again.  This is faster, this is more fun, this is INCREDIBLE.  

 I had one of the most thrilling races of my life. 

I couldn't wait for Round 2.

Results and write-up for Day 1 at CXMagazine.com (by Molly Hurford, "The Girl With the Cowbell Tattoo," whose acquaintance I made while she was writing on her laptop).

Next post:  Providence, Round 2.  Coming shortly.