A Massacre For The Ages!

That’s me just before the Texas Chainring Massacre….my wife decided to take this picture as I was trying to inconspicuously lube the gooch.  She says it’s the perfect advertisement for Chamois Butt’r.  I say that “Lube the Gooch” would be a great name for a rock band (thanks to Dave Barry for that joke…second post in a row that I’ve stolen it).

I had a great time at the Massacre!  It was only my second real race experience, and my first real completion of such.  The race was a 112 mile off road romp (115 miles by my computer) northwest of Dallas, TX in a small town called Roanoke.  It had originally been scheduled for 3/21, but a veritable blizzard just happened to roll in on that day, bringing snow and an 18 degree wind chill with it.  The promoter mercifully postponed the race, thanks in some part to me and Pat Smith Facebooking him into submission with our wussified pleadings.  Hey, we are from torrid southeast Texas.  We don’t do blizzards. 

The course was basically a big loop running northwest out to Greenwood before coming back around to the starting point at DFW Adventure Park.   I’d guesstimate that it was about 70% off road with the rest being pavement.  Typical of the area, the whole thing was mainly a constant series of rollers….a never-ending up down up down up down up down.  It may as well have been Paris Hilton’s head in a moving vehicle.  Level riding was sparse, and the downhills were torturously fleeting.  Throw in a 30 mph headwind which magically aligned itself with MY face at all times no matter which direction I traveled, and we had ourselves one hellacious race course! 

There were somewhere north of 50 riders, some of whom were opting only to do the 60(?) mile “short route.”   I’m honestly not sure how many of us were riding the long route, as we were not required to declare as much during registration.  We just kind of loosely proclaimed our intentions before the race.  All riders followed the same course up until the oddly named the city of Krum, after which the short route turned left and looped back to the park.  Those of us seeking more punishment turned right. 

But, like a doctor might say to a woman giving birth, I’m getting ahead.  Let me get back to the start of the race.  (Yeah, I know…that was bad) 

As we listened to the race promoter, Kevin Lee, explain the rules, I observed the other riders.  In very noticeable attendance was a group of Big Pig Racing team members.  Most of them were large dudes with ample girth, leaving me to wonder if this is how their club name came into being, and if I should go ask to join them.  But there were some “standard” cycling bodies among them as well, both guys and gals, as well as a giant costume pig head which they took turns wearing.  My wife spoke to one of the female Pigs and found out that she was still drunk from the previous night’s tequila binge.  Not hung over, mind you.  DRUNK.  Apparently the Pigs like to party hard the night before a race.  Yeah, I definitely think I should ask about joining. 

The other most noticeable thing was that most people were on cyclocross bikes, and there were even some road bikes mixed in.  I’d known that this would be the case beforehand, since Kevin Lee had stated that the course had become hardpacked enough over the last few weeks that it had become doable on these pansy rigs.  (I call them pansy rigs because I can’t afford to buy one anytime soon)  This pretty much killed the far-fetched fantasy I had of winning the race on my meaty 29er. 

There was no official “GO!”  As Kevin Lee began winding down the rules, guys just started taking off.  I couldn’t fathom how this was fair, seeing as how there was a $750 winner take all prize at stake.  Had I believed I had a shot at winning, I think I’d have been pretty hot about the lack of organization and allowing these guys to get a head start. 

Pulling out of DFW Adventure Park, we immediately hit the roughest dirt road of the entire race, and just like that, distances began widening out.  I am not ashamed to admit that I fell into that “balls out” crowd and started pushing way too hard out of the gate.  I knew I was doing it, and I knew I couldn’t sustain it, but I couldn’t stop myself.  I was amped.  “I promise I won’t do this in the Tour Divide…I promise I won’t do this in the Tour Divide.”  I comfortably chalked it up to being a rookie.

As I dutifully kept pace with the CX’ers, I was complimented on my setup for the 3^rd time by another rider.  I was very surprised by these compliments, as I had fully expected to receive nothing but weird looks.  I had my Epic frame bag with tools, food and water in it (no Camelbak). I was the only rider with a frame bag.  Also as far as I could see, I was the only fella with clip-on aerobars and a GPS attached to the handlebars.  In addition, I was testing my brand new SPOT messenger, compliments of Pat Smith.  I had it affixed to the back of my frame bag.  I felt like an oddball, but people were calling my setup “smart.” 

It was pretty apparent right away that the wind had decided to be a gigantic bastard today.  As I stubbornly labored against it’s brutal onslaught, I cursed my thick upper body for its inability to slice through wind gusts like the smaller guys out in front of me.  Somewhere between 12 and 15 miles in, I gave up the blistering pace and watched the CX’ers ever so gradually disappear from view.  Now, I was alone, somewhere in between the fastest guys and everyone else.  I felt pretty good about the position…”At least I am the leader out of all the mountain bikers!” I proudly told myself. 

That was about to change, though, as the Big Pigs came rumbling up behind me.  About half their contingent, anyway.  I reckoned that the biggest of the Pigs were suffering mightily a mile or three behind.  This group chatted casually among themselves as they gained ground, then just as casually fell into drafting position behind me.  For those who may not know, drafting is a technique where one or more cyclists line up directly behind a lead cyclist and let him bear the brunt of the wind resistance, thereby allowing the trailing rider(s) to expend less energy.

Although no longer a distance rookie, I am still a race rookie.  I’d never been drafted before, if that’s even how you say that, and for some reason I never even thought about the possibility of it happening to me.  It was somewhat of a shock to see this dude right on my back tire with a line of Pigs behind him.  For a moment I nervously wondered what I should do.  I mean, I wasn’t on this guy’s team and had not been asked to ease his load, and I was certainly not offered a turn behind him later on.  Should I speed up?  Slow down?  Should I pull one of those movie car chase deals where I slam on my brakes and let them shoot past me?  Hey, if I hocked a loogie right now….

I decided I’d just kept riding at the same pace, figuring they’d eventually slingshot past me, and they did.  Even the slight little blonde girl on her niner.  Ouch.  I’d been “chicked.” 

Well two can play at this game, I thought.  I picked up my pace to match theirs and fell in behind one of their large Pig rumps.  Now, I was drafting.   First time I’d ever done it.  It was nice, I guess, but for some reason, I felt like I was cheating.  I dunno…it just felt dirty to me.  Perhaps because he farted on me.  Drafting is not allowed in the TD, which is what I’m really training up for anyway, so I didn’t see a good reason to continue doing it here.  I fell out from behind the big farting fellow and let them move a little ways ahead, figuring to keep them within attack distance, for no other reason than I feel extremely cool and sexy saying “I figured I’d keep them within attack distance.”

The course continued to alternate between rock strewn dirt roads and pavement, and it was marked at every turn with either fluorescent arrows that had been spray painted into the ground or by little arrow placards tacked to trees.  However, at a handful of juntures, there was nothing.  Either the placard had gone missing or the organizers had forgotten to mark the turn.   At one unmarked junction, the Pigs, who seemingly refused to split up, all stopped and began looking around, wondering which way to go.  From behind them, I saw their confusion, took a quick glance at my Dakota for the correct direction, and hammered down.  I rocketed past them, giving them a courteous “this way” as I cranked it out, determined to use their indecision to distance myself from them.  That plan was ruined, however, at the next junction, where I had to wait for a very busy road to clear.  The Pigs caught up to me there, and we all chatted as we waited for traffic to die off.

From there we played leap frog up until the bailout option for the short route.  Half of them took that route, and it suddenly made sense to me why those big old boys had been pushing harder than they should have, at least in my non-expert opinion.  It was because they didn’t have as far to go. 

From that point, the remaining Pigs pretty much left me behind.  I reckoned now that their slower riders were no longer in the group, they could throttle down a little more, and they did.  Soon, I was alone, and I didn’t mind a bit.  After so many weeks of training in solitude for the TD, it was like putting on a comfortable pair of house shoes.  I gave up the single-minded focus of keeping up with the Pigs.  Now, 40-some-odd miles into the route, I suddenly had a mind to enjoy my surroundings.  As if I’d just been teleported there, I became aware of the rolling green farmlands, the yellow fields of daisies, the glassy stares of pasture animals, and the fresh, unspoiled air, and it all brought a smile to my face.  The wind fought valiantly to erase it, but it could not.  Now, I was riding MY race.

By the by I passed up two Pigs changing out a tube on one of their CX bikes.  I was a bit surprised the others had gone ahead, seeing as how they seemed to all stick together.  A little later, the two fellows I had passed caught back up and were in the process of passing me again when one of them had another mechanical.  As they both stopped yet again, I kept on truckin,’ content with the slightly slower pace on a more reliable bike.   

About 50 miles into the route, I came to the “halfway point” of the 115 mile course, a tiny little unincorporated commuinty called Greenwood.  We were required to check in at a little general store there and pick up an orange zip tie.  When I pulled up, the Pigs that had dusted me were all there hanging out and milling around the store.  I retrieved my zip tie, stretched out a little bit, and bought some supplies, chatting with the other racers.

Now, I had been fueling on junk food throughout my ride, taking in 300-500 calories an hour, as I had been carrying Little Debbies and other goodies in my frame bag.  These guys hadn’t eaten anything, or at least I had not witnessed it.  Surely they were more depleted and fatigued than I was.  When the two Pigs I had left behind with the mechanical pulled up and they all reunited, I sensed an opportunity.  They were going to eat, talk, and rest, and I wagered that the time was going to get away from them as they socialized.  I heard one of them talk about ordering hamburgers.

I rapidly packed my shit and saddled up.  I was going to beat these fuckers.

I mean “fuckers” in the best sense of the word, of course.  Every Pig I talked to was a cool cat.  But I wanted to be able to say that this little old niner-riding rookie beat a bunch of race team guys on cross bikes. 

I left that store and hammered down as much as I dared.  I did not want to hear another spinning wheel coming up on my rear the whole rest of the race. 

It was after 12:00 now, and the day was heating up.  The headwind had not eased a whit, and in fact,  seemed even stronger now.  And the rollers just got steeper and steeper.  I had to resort to full granny gear regularly, and I was forced to dismount a few times as well.  I grinded and grinded for the next few hours, checking my backside every so often to see if there were any pigs back there riding me.  In this way, perhaps I was like Paris Hilton.  

Soon, the brownies I’d been baking were done….they were done in a very insistent and powerful way.  They wanted out of the oven….NOW.  Of course, I was on a farm road lined by fences and thick foliage on both sides, meaning that if I so dared, the deed would have to be done in plain view.  Cars were sparse…if I was quick about it, maybe…but no, I had no TP with me.  I just had to press on until I saw a convenience store, whenever that might be.  I resolved to keep struggling with the oven door, trying mightily to keep it closed.  No sooner had I done so that I spied a blue hand towel lying in the dirt.  My fingers toyed with the brakes….dare I?  Surely I could clean it off enough just for one good swipe…??  I thought of what my wife might say if she knew what I was thinking….I moved on.

It was a good hour or more before I came to a small patch of civilization with a convenience store.  My customary dread about leaving my bike outside unattended was nowhere to be found as I roared into the doors like a tidal wave and crushed a path to the sweet white porcelain throne.   On the way out , I snagged a chocolate milk and a readymade order of chicken fingers and fries.  They were not delicious, but I savaged them hastily and saddled back up.  Still no Pigs.

Regaining the course, of which I figured there was about 30 miles left, I turned south back on to a rocky dirt road and was met with this giant orange message that had been painted into the ground:  Hammer Time.  I assumed that it was not painted by an MC Hammer fan.  However, I could not hammer any more than I’d already been hammering.    The promise of rumbling Pigs in my rear had kept me hammering for many a mile now. 

I cranked out the remaining stretch until I got to within 7 miles of the finish, and I just had to stop for a few minutes.  The legs had been groaning at me for the shocking lack of rest I’d afforded them during this race.  On my long TD training rides, my custom was to get off the bike every 15 or 20 miles, have something to eat, take pictures, etc.  Now, for the first time ever, it was balls out all day.  Time enough for rest later on.  But I could resist no more.  The legs just hurt, and I had to give them a quick break. 

No sooner had I stopped and turned up my water bottle than a sonofabitchin’ Pig zoomed past me.  Scared the shit out of me too.  Where had he come from?  I’d been checking my back for miles and never saw anyone.  My attention had obviously slipped.  I tried to catch back up to him, but he was in sprint mode, and I couldn’t match him.  Well done Pig, well done. 

I pulled back into DFW Adventure Park with a finishing time of 9 hours, 55 minutes.  My computer had clocked just over 115 miles.  There was no official check in or recording of my time…just a congratulations and a Guiness from Kevin Lee, and that was that.  The winner, Chris Powers, had come in at 5 hours and 57 minutes.  Holy Shit.  He definitely deserved the $750 with a time like that.

All in all, I was quite happy with my first real race performance.  Most of all, I’d had fun.  Secondly, I’d beaten several Pigs, who came in at various times after me, as well as many other riders who came in with times of more than 12 hours.  I’d also successfully tested some new gear, that being my SPOT Messenger and my new WTB Rocket V SLT saddle.  The SPOT worked beautifully, as I had some “fans” following my progress the whole way.  The saddle feels pretty good, and will feel even better, I think, with a little more break-in time. It should be a “go” for the Tour Divide.   

Thanks to my long time buddy Joe Kennedy and his wife Kat for being gracious hosts.  In an amazingly fortunate weaving of fate, they had recently moved from New Jersey to an apartment literally five minutes away from the race site.  We didn’t have to waste money on a hotel, and we had great company.  Thanks also to Pat Smith for the donation of the awesome SPOT messenger.  He was supposed to race the Massacre with me, but he was sent to Trinidad on business.  Apparently he feels that a “JOB” is more important than riding bikes.  Pffft. 

So, next up, a 200 mile, fully loaded ride in Hunstville this weekend!  After that, I’m going to begin my tapering process, gradually decreasing my riding distances to give the legs some rest before the TD.  It has recently come to my attention that there are a few TD’ers who are riding their bikes up to Banff and are going to turn right around and begin the TD.  Damn…those guys are hardcore. 

Here’s the whole picture set…thanks for reading!

[Show as slideshow]

[View with PicLens]

Be Sociable, Share!

• 

Leave a reply

Click here to cancel reply.

Name (required)

Mail (will not be published) (required)

Website

CAPTCHA Code *