The Cat 3 Schmuck's Cyclocross Diaries:   Small Fish in the Big Pond

            It's mid-December and this is one of our few weekends this season to see decent ‘cross weather—upper 40's and overcast.   This might sound like bad weather, but your first 80 degree ‘cross race will remind you that this is a cool weather sport.

            After violating my own religious law by dropping out at Wurstcross with dehydration, then cooking like a lobster in Smithville and Houston, I was thrilled to see clouds.   It's been a rough ‘cross season in addition to the heat.   In Fort Worth I was in a good race with Fawley when I dropped a chain on the last lap. Hopefully now I have my chain watcher adjusted right.   In Denton I had been preoccupied trying to get there and forgot to snack beforehand.   Once again, in a good race with Fawley and with 15 minutes left I bonked on a cosmic scale.   By the end I could barely turn my pedals.

            This time we're in Austin and I've got a carpool buddy, Joe Paugh of Broken Films.   I scored us free lodging with one of my old college friends, saving more money.   We had been concerned about the venue since the promoter lost use of their first choice at the 11 th hour.   This one was well off-the-beaten path, but upon looking around, we were pleasantly surprised at the replacement they had found: two sandpits, a couple of good hills, some pavement and good turf.   This should be fun.   At registration I recognize several names:   Veggeburg, Steen Rose, David Wenger…. the cream of Texas road racing, including at least two state champions.   This is ‘cross, my specialty, but these guys are fast on any bike.   Nathan Phillips, Jeff Park and Troy Dunton were also in attendance, some of Texas' best on ‘cross bikes and mountain bikes.  

We stage up to start with about 20 in the field—huge for an A-category race in Texas.   I consider that the first sandpit is only a few hundred meters from the start and opt to hang back while the alpha dogs twist their throttles from the gun.   It was wise—I peek over the shoulder of the man ahead of me as the first riders hit the sand and I see asses, wheels and sand in the air.   Since riding through the sand is no longer an option with all the carnage, I dismount and use this as the first barrier section.   Worried that someone might have been hurt in the pile-up, I check the faces of the elite riders who are piled on top of each other.   They're all laughing hysterically.   There's something you won't see in road season.

I recognize that I've just been gifted about a 10 second gap on several riders of greater talent, so I take the opportunity and make all I can of it.   Inevitably, I know I'll get caught and passed, but better later than sooner.   Catch me they did.   One by one, each gave me a draft briefly until I could no longer keep pace.   In most cases I could hold on going uphill or in technical spots, but once the course opened up, my legs were inadequate.   On a poorly placed bump in the road section, my tires rebounded just wrong and bounced my chain off at the base of a steep pitch.   With my single chainring and no front derailleur (intended to prevent this problem), I'm forced to stop and reset the chain.   I was on two good riders' wheels until this.   Later, David Wenger came around me and I managed to latch onto him for a good while.   Maybe he was allowing me to tag along, I don't know.   Regardless, I just appreciated the draft.   By this point, in spite of the temperature being below 50, sweat has saturated the cycling cap that's keeping heat in my helmet and sand out of my eyes, and has begun dripping from the bill.   This is why ‘cross is a winter sport.   On one of my trips into the mischievous sandpit while clinging to Wenger's wheel, trusting him completely, a hidden rut catches his front wheel and sends his bike veering to the right.   His body can't quite follow and he highsides before leaving my path.   With no steering in the sand my only option is to dismount--quickly.   I at least manage to get my weight off of my front wheel before it rolls over his rear wheel.   I hear him laughing again and figure that any time a can make on him, he'll quickly take back, so I quickly remount…and drop my chain…again.   We end up both getting back on at the same time and I manage to hold his wheel for another half lap.   Soon after he removed me from his draft I hit a root badly, jarring the chain off…once again.   I must adjust this chain watcher and get it right this time.  

For the remaining laps I just ride the hardest pace I can maintain, trying to minimize further losses, and try to ride very smoothly as not to bounce the chain off again.   Due to the monumental efforts of trying to stay with every superior rider that passed me for as long as I could manage, I'm beginning to fade, and I've totally lost the snap I had been using to exit the corners earlier.   I also think that one hill is getting either longer or steeper every lap.   After the finish I can barely hold myself up.   I must have made a good effort.

As fun as this course is, it's frustrating to be held back by mechanical problems.   That sand pit could have been a little shorter, too.   You could hold a line for about 10-15 feet, then your bike would go where the sand wanted it to go, not where you wanted to go.   Many of us, at least once, had to dismount and step over the tape to get back on the course after crossing the sand.   No ‘cross course is perfect, though.   Some are just more fun than others.

Today was another exercise in humility—accepting 10 th place and being schooled by roadies in their off-season, some of them doing their first ever ‘cross race, while I'm at peak fitness.   For a career cat 3, however, it's a rare opportunity to line up with opponents at the elite levels of the sport.   It's surprising how much fun you can have while being beaten at your own game.