A.C. Race Series #2 - Sometimes, I think it's a sin...

By Scotty Mac

Far as I'm concerned, Gordon Lightfoot is the man. The. Man. I grew up on his music, an inherited love from my parents, and thirty-odd years later, it still speaks to me. Weird way to start a race report? Sure. But I've gone and done it anyway.

The reason the Canadian bard merits mention is because a lyric from his song "Sundown" kept rolling through my mind as the course official at the top of the Bear Creek Terrace race course hollered at us that the race was cancelled due to the driving rain and the stabbing lightning:

"Sometimes, I think it's a sin/When I feel like I'm winnin' when I'm losin' again."

Because, up until that point, I had been comprehensively crushing the race. Easily, without a doubt in my mind, it was far and away the best I had ever done with a number plate on the front of my bike. I was in second, maybe first place in my class and I had the gap to stay away. And then, *poof* Ma Nature appeared with a full dram of righteous wrath.

"Sometimes, I think it's a sin/When I feel like I'm winnin'..."

The race started as well as it possibly could, even as the rain picked up its sense of urgency. I got clipped into my pedals and kept tight to the initial leaders in my group. I had just pre-ridden the course and though I was eager to apply my lessons learned from the first Ascent Cycling race, I retained a little patience. There was a nice, wide climb after the first left and I thought that would be the place to make my move.

And sure enough, even as I thought it, it was real. The first guys to hammer out for my race sat up and I motored right by, kept the throttle down for the rest of the climb and stormed through the opening lap in good shape.

"Sometimes, I think it's a sin..."

The elements continued to punch well above their weight, as has been the case here through the months of May and June. During the first half of the second lap, the course transitioned from slightly damp, to really damp, to slime. Same old song, I know. Believe you me, I'd love to sing a different tune.

And then, on top of the ridge, still away and still feeling okay, the course marshal gave us the "shut 'er down" spiel, and that, as they say, was that. I cruised back to the start/finish, took a moment to look down sadly at my poor, mud-caked Kona Big Kahuna hardtail and then beat feet for the truck, thoughts of a warm dinner spinning 'round my head. But I was smiling. The race was cut short, but I had an absolute blast.

"Sometimes, I think..."

Mac out.

2015 Gunnison Original Half-Growler Pt. II: A Small Matter of Perspective

By Scotty Mac

I mean…

It was just…

Sweet baby Jesus, there was a lot of mud. I’m writing this with two weeks’ distance between me and it, and that’s the abiding memory.

Topping the Hill, it was slimy, brown stuff as far as the eye could see. I slithered and slid, taking my time on the next bit of fire road, eyes locked forward, teeth clenched to the point of grinding. I couldn’t relax. Pete rode by and I tried to ride with him, but I couldn’t hang and let him go. I had to recover a little bit before the singletrack, especially if it was going to be more of the same.

The first ribbon of trail came into view, Josho’s, and I sighed with relief. A couple more riders went by and then we were single file down a fun descent. The mud wasn’t incredibly bad there, and I allowed myself a small smile. The smile faded as we hit the next climb and I saw the grooves. The back tires of the bikes in front of me started to drift sideways as their pilots struggled to maintain direction and then I was in it, too.

Stuff blurs for me from that point to about an hour and a half later, and that’s just about all I want to write concerning the mud, anyway. I can hear you saying “We get it, Scotty. What else ya got?” I remember it started to hail somewhere on Josho’s and I regretted not wearing leg warmers for about five minutes. Marcus went by right before we turned onto the Skyline trail to start that silly climb. It’s a long race and I’m not fit enough to stay cognizant of each trail.

Oh yeah, the guy. I lead with this in Part 1. So this guy is standing in the middle of what used to be a fire road and now looks more like a hillbilly’s idea of a muddin’ good time and is yelling himself hoarse, cautioning us to consider dismounting. I had caught back up to Marcus and he dropped in right in front of me. The pitch was steep but doable, so I followed his line, dropper post one click down. I was sort of in control of the descent for about 2/3 of the way, right up until the front wheel decided to augur in. A quick dismount followed by a frantic, breakdancing handplant later, and I had just managed to make a Mac angel in the mud. I guess maybe the dude was right. I would have to walk the rest of the way.

The mud took on a peanut butter-like quality at that point and efficiently packed up every crevice between the wheels and frame. I tried to hoist the thing over my shoulder to discover that, yes, mud weighs a lot and why weren’t you lifting with your legs in the first place, Scotty?

I nearly quit right there. I plodded and squelched the 50 or so feet to firm(er? Ish?) ground, slammed the Kahuna down to try and shift some of the mud, gathered myself mentally and soldiered on.

Another fire road. This one led to the one bit of road on the course and as I came down it, I caught a whole lot of Ascent Cycling red, white and black out the corner of my eye. Clay, Tom and Lane were on the side of the road, clustered around Clay’s bike.

“Everything all right, fellas? What’s up?” I asked.

“Mechanical!” Clay called back, shaking his head. He was done.

I nearly quit again. It would have been so easy to give in right there. The road would take us back to the campground and the sheer amount of abuse my bike had taken, along with the daunting mileage left made me strongly consider calling it a day. That spot was the last, best place to do it, too. If I continued down the road to the next climb, I would be past the point of no return, if only in my mind.

I rode down the road a little, vacillated, turned around and headed back to my friends. Lane asked how far back Justine was. I responded that I hadn’t seen her since the start of the race. He said he was going to wait for her and ride and I nodded. It made sense. I and my bosom debated awhile more.

And right when I was ready to pack it in, one of the Growler course volunteers looked over. “Hey man, get going! It gets better from here on out!” He yelled at me, waving his arm forward. I would have been more inclined to believe there was a million dollars at the finish line with my name on it at that point, but the bitter result of the Castle Rock race poked back into my mind.

I nodded at my friends, wished them well, turned around and pedaled onward.

I wanted the finish line.

Mac out.

TO BE CONCLUDED…

Ascent Cycling Race Series #1 Report – Lesson(s) Learned

By Scotty Mac

I’m lined up at the 3 June Ascent Cycling race at Palmer Park. Category 3 (beginner), age group ‘None-ya.’ Marcus is on my right, and he’s dressed appropriately for the occasion: Ascent trail jersey, baggy shorts. I look like one of those red-white-blue popsicles that are such good fun right around the 4^th of July, but that’s how I roll and you shouldn’t be surprised: A.C.-flavored with a side of Mac n’ cheese.

The whistle blows and we’re off, chugging up a fire road to give a little bit of separation before we hit the singletrack. One poor bloke’s chain goes off the rails, prompting a headlong dive by the guys following him over to the left line, the good line, the line I was enjoying mostly unimpeded. Lesson learned: drop the hammer early and avoid the shenanigans.

I slot in behind a few riders, and Marcus moves into the clean air of the class leaders. I see him once more as we hit the first technical climb in the 3-mile course and then not again. He’s off to a good start, I thought as I surveyed good areas to try and affect a pass.

The Palmer Park course is not a smooth course, and it rewards decent bike-handling ability and punishes ham-fisted attempts to climb step-ups or rail step-downs. I become absorbed in negotiating each obstacle, keenly aware of the sheer number left turns. Those lefts come in all shapes, sizes and angles, like a boxer mixing up her punches: hard, tight lefts, lefts with rocks that necessitate a lift of the wheel, lefts that fall away. It’s a short course, but it’s a fun challenge.

The pack thins to nothing and I ride some of the second lap and all of the third alone. I clean every climb and nail every downhill line, my Specialized Stumpjumper FSR EVO most definitely the appropriate choice for the terrain and my comfort with it.

The start/finish comes into view and I see the USAC folks have packed in the lap counter, signaling the end of the race. I’m somewhat relieved, but still wound up enough to want more. Good thing too, as I’ll need that energy for the long, slow grind up and out of Palmer Park and back to my house.

I finish 5^th in class and have an amazing time doing it. The venue, course and Wednesday evening vibe was absolutely the perfect way to spend the end of Hump Day. I look forward to more.

Pics? Natch.

Mac out.