This weekend I raced Crank the Shield, a three day mountain bike stage race up in Ontario, Canada, a bit north and east of Toronto.  After my afternoon class on Thursday, I drove north of the border and arrived in Buckwallow -- the start of the first stage -- at around midnight after nine hours in the car.  The scene the next morning was heartening, as the race organizers were doing a great job feeding and staging three hundred riders.  This theme would continue throughout the weekend.  The food was fantastic, the transfers were efficient with lots of volunteers, and all the small things -- from the bike wash to steaming hot showers every night to Shimano and Pedros neutral support -- were top notch.

 

As far as the racing goes, well, I´m right now fairly wrecked and hobbling around like an old man, sore everywhere.

 

Stage one was 45 miles of singletrack, doubletrack, dirt roads, and a bit of asphalt.  Like an idiot, I staged fairly well back in the group, figuring that I could pass people in the first kilometers.  Alas, I didn´t realize the we would be jumping into the woods after less than a mile.  So, spinning madly on the singlespeed and woefully undergeared, I got onto the singletrack behind, oh, 250 sundry racers.  I was, to put it in technical terms, colossally screwed.  There I am, at the back of this ridiculous conga line of fitness riders setting up for trail "features."  My eyes bulging out in frustration, trying to be polite to pass in places were passing was impossible, I knew things were really bad when I found myself behind guys with stuffed toys zip tied to the tops of their helmets discussing which varieties of beer were going to be served later.  My inner voice: "You guys realize, right, it HELPS THE SINGLESPEEDERS WHEN YOU GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY."  I was at that point riding with my buddy and Pakistan mate Chris Reid, who recently won the Canadian national gold medal in the team pursuit on the track, and we were, to put it mildly, Very Angry.  On the short doubletracks we would rocket forward, passing dozens of dozing fat cannucks, only to be held up by the next group.  After 12 miles or so of single file riding, we emerged onto a more open course and, for me, from there, it was just damage control.  I had it pinned for the next three hours, including during the 8 mile pancake flat road section where -- running my 34x20 -- I was summarily passed again by the guys with gears.

 

So, in the US, when there are really boggy, wet, mud areas where you have to wade through waist deep beaverpiss water to get to the trail and march through the woods over brambles and brush to find your way, where there are holes so deep that they swallow up 4 wheelers and jeeps alike, in the US when the road/trail/path is like that, well, you don´t freakin´ race there.  In Canada, that´s where the course is, of course.  No lie: there were dozens, dozens!, of times when my bike was on my shoulder and the water was up to my hips.  There was mud to end all apocalyptic mud slide ends of civilization.  I fell down a bunch and thought I was going to drown.  I´d say that´s unusual in mountain biking. It was also fantastic.

 

Stage 2 had me hoppin´ mad, since I´d lost so much time in stage 1 and had expended a lot of effort trying to stay in contact.  2 was billed as the hard stage, and it lived up that.  25 miles to start through the most rancid wretched bogs imaginable, and then mixed terrain for another 30 miles.  I woke up a little earlier, I pulled a dickhead move, and I staged near the front.  At the gun I hit it, and flew the coop with the top two singlespeeds and a bunch of the geared guys.  It was mind numbing, frenetic, and exhilarating, dropping the wheel into a mud channel, hopping from rock to rock, approaching puddles at high speed and having instantly to choose a line to go around.  The SSers in first and second were running a lot taller ratio than I was, so they´d gap me on the flats, but I´d clean climbs they were walking.  We rode together for mile and miles, picking off geared riders, redlining up slick ascents.  Unfortunately, the stage ended with nine miles of rail trail, so I lost contact with the lead guys, spinning like a hamster.  Five hours, ten minutes.  I gained time on some rivals and -- more importantly, because this is bike racing -- people started to notice that I was doing okay.

 

This part of bike racing culture is funny, by which I mean, lame.  End of first day, anonymous in the pack, that night I sat with my friends on the Misfit Psychles factory team, totally mellow, they are great guys and a blast to hang out with.  When, however, on stage 2 you pass a lot of people who fancy themselves fast and that are riding full suspension geared bikes and finish 20 minutes ahead of them on a 50 mile stage, they´re suddenly a lot nicer, and they want to sit with you and stuff at dinner.  "Dude! You were killing it on the singlespeed, eh?" "Man, rigid singlespeed, eh?" "Good job on the singlespeed, you´re insane, eh?" "Anyone sitting here, eh?"  Yeah. Uh huh. Whatever, eh?

 

The last day of racing was hard, I was pretty shattered from the work on day 2.  At least I got to stage near the front, because everybody made way for the one gear crew.  I was three minutes behind 4th place on GC, and 20 minutes behind 3rd, so I had my work cut out for me.  It was more favorable racing for my tastes, though, as it was to have lots of climbing and an abundance of high speed up and down singletrack (I had the gearing for it).  Thus, a strategy: I was going go for broke on the opening climb and try to shed everyone I could.  From the gun I gave it full gas, and was riding with the lead group up some steep dirt tracks.  This gave me some distance on all of the other singlespeeders, and it would last for a quarter of the race.  Then the first place guy -- Mark U. -- came rocketing by, so there was nothing to be done there.  The 4th place guy -- my old friend from Jay Peak racing days, Mark L. -- bridged up to me.  All he had to do from there is mark me, and though I put in a bunch of efforts, he was always able to come back.  So, I wasn´t going to take back those three minutes.  We pressed on, trying to take back time on the 2nd and 3rd place GC guys.  At one point, Mark L. and me riding together, we catch up to a group of gearies who, it turns out, were the second group on the course.  It´s this relentless wack of a climb.  But on a singlespeed, the limiter is usually legs, not breath, so Mark and I are talking, you know, about travel, evil ex-girlfriends, bike parts, whatever.  Some dude blows his fuse:  "Would you guys SAVE IT ´TILL AFTER THE RACE AND LET US ENJOY OURSELVES!"  He didn´t so much seem like he was enjoying himself.  In fact, he looked like he was on the rivet, all red face and snot and breathing hard.  I guess it probably is annoying to have people chatting when you´re about to crack.  I wanted to say, "Easy, douche fuck, you´re on a geared bike, just gather up your diapers and ride away, sallyassmotherfucker."  What I actually said was, "Oh, yeah, um, okay, sorry."  And then Mark and I, irritated, rode away from them.

 

With 3k to go, I bobbled a tech section and Mark got a gap on me.  He came in 2nd on the stage, I came in 3rd, but not enough over 3rd place on GC (close!) to move up any places.  So, I ended 5th on GC. 

 

250k in three days, my clothes are more mud than fabric.  After the race, I drove for four hours to Rochester, then five hours the next morning to get back in time to teach my afternoon class. 

 

Had an amazing time, highly recommended.

 

Joe Cruz