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…
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