Warning: Be advised that this post contains inappropriate language that is central to the story.

It was my eight mountain bike race ever and second of the year, and I will be the first to admit that I am not the fastest, and am usually the slowest, rider in my class. Given that my personal goals are socializing and bettering myself, where I place is of only secondary concern to me. If I’ve been able to cheer on my friends at KSD and stay upright, I’ve had a good race and a good day (To be honest, if I’m able to come in “not last,” that’s admittedly even better.).

With that said, in order to make up for my lack of physical prowess, having a little social grace goes a long way towards endearing myself to others in our community. I mean, even if I can’t be a baller like, say, Crow, at least I can be an ambassador for the sport and KSD, right? Today is perhaps some hint that I might not be the Derek Jeter of our hobby, despite my breathtakingly good looks.

I entered this particular race with no small amount of trepidation. I’d never ridden Chestnut Ridge before, and though I’d been told that it is not technical (true), I had also been told that it involved a fair bit of climbing. If “fair bit” is synonymous with, “it’s the M.C. Escher of mountain bike trails,” then I suppose that has some truth to it. It goes in a circle, and always uphill. Always. Fuckers.

But enter it I did, and I endeavored to prepare well for it and do my best. Thanks to Kenny’s book recommendation on training for mountain bike races (The Mountain Biker’s Training Bible, Joe Friel), I knew enough not to blow out my legs the week prior, so I shut it down after Tuesday. On race day, I joined Todd McMillan, Todd Davis, and Vern Yoder (great sour cream, btw) for a little warm up to give me a taste of what was to come. Good plan – it yielded adjustments to my seat (raised it), rear tire (dropped the pressure), and caused some alarm for me about my lungs. Of all the things I ought to have been worried about, I wasn’t expected it to be my lungs. I figured it would be my legs. As it turns out, it was something else entirely.

As high noon approached, I queued with dozens of others, listening to admonishments about trail etiquette (more on that later) and awaiting the start. Interestingly, I developed a cramp in my side. Really? I thought. A cramp? I haven’t even done anything yet. Oh boy. I tried to ignore it, and figured that it would subside once we got under way. Probably just nerves.

And under way we got. Sticking to my proven race strategy, I slipped to nearly the rear of the pack of the 40-69 beginner class. Why keep everyone in suspense, after all. It started off well – five or six of us bunched up for about a mile and a half in a tight little group, and I was feeling pretty good. But the cramp wouldn’t go away. A bit concerning. And it was getting worse. What a mystery.

Eventually, it impacted my riding. I didn’t have the confidence to stick with the group, and soon lagged behind. Then, I was getting passed. First by 11 year old freaks of nature, and later by girls. Yucky! All part of my plan, of course; it had happened before, of course, and will again. But nonetheless disheartening since it wasn’t my legs or my lungs that were hampering me, but my side.

And then I hit the switchbacks prior to the apple barn (aka, “white, non-descript building.” Where were the apples, for God’s sake?). Man, those were tough. No fun. Where’s the upside? And oh, the cramps. But then I had an epiphany. I knew what the cramps were from, and because of that, I knew how to fix them! It was simple, really.

I had to wee-wee.

Badly.

One more switchback, and I resolved that it must be done. I was at this point all alone in the woods (see race strategy, above), with my race class in front of me, and soon it would be revealed that I had no class at all. I dropped my bike, found a nice, hornet-free nook, and prepared to make tinkle in the woods, as mother nature intended. But not without a brief delay, in the name of Marsha Kramer. Good thing I looked up! Bless her heart, in true mountain biker spirit, she was concerned about my well-being, enthusiastically offering me energy. No Marsha, what I need you can’t help me with. She finally realized what my immediate plan was, and quickly scampered up the path. Offers of help have their limits, after all.

With my business done, I remounted my beloved Yeti (bike, not bigfoot, you pervs) and proceeded on my way. And up. Always up. ‘Bout tired of this shit. My cramp magically disappeared, but I was now well behind not just my class, but all of the beginners. Ah well. Just finish, I thought. By now I was in a foul mood.

Passed the apple barn and the throng of well-wishers, and shortly thereafter, I hit what I realized only afterward was the rock garden about which I’d been forewarned. Now, I don’t know about you, but that’s no rock garden. West Branch has rock gardens. That was, well, what was that? I mean, other than uphill. Tricky, yes, but not intimidating. I just needed to huff through it. As I did so, I cursed the course, cursed the switchbacks. And then, in the depths of my self-pity I was startled by a voice. “Nice job!”

Now, it might have been. I was after all still upright and navigated the line well. But I wasn’t thinking “nice job.” Instinctively, without thinking, I shouted back to the voice precisely what I was thinking. Loudly.

“Fuck your mother!”

Let that sink in. “Fuck. Your. Mother.”

Got it?

Now, everyone has a phrase, right? I mean, we all have a go-to phrase to express our displeasure. For some it might be “Shucks,” or “Fudge!” or maybe even something racier, like “Gee willickers!!!” For me, it’s “fuck your mother.” It’s just my thing. It’s not personal for heaven’s sake, it’s just what I say. Ask wifey – she knows. She laughs every time I say it.

As I rounded the switchback (uphill, again), I saw the person associated with the voice for the first time. And she was not amused. Not amused at all.

She lay there – actually lay there – in the woods, clutching a camera at an incredibly ill-advised spot, and stared at me. Had she been my mother, she’d’ve taken me over her not-insubstantial knee and swatted me good. As it was, she was all but dressing me down with her eyes. Unimpressed. Remorse immediately washed over me – I mean, what did her mother ever do to me, after all? And after seeing her, I’m fairly certain I’d’ve not wanted to follow through on the threat, in any event.

“Sorry.” She was not moved.

“Oh...hey...um, nice camera. Is that a 5D?,” I said trying to salvage our brief relationship.

“No. 50D.”

“Oh, well, nice camera. Sorry.”

And I was off. Eventually there was a brief respite from the uphill. Too brief, still more switchbacks, and then, thankfully, closure. The end in sight. And as I crossed the finish line, the volunteers knew that the beginner’s class had at last finished. All part of my race strategy, you see.

Later at the tents, I saw my affronted camerawoman, and again made the attempt. Had to be a man and own up to my indiscretions, after all. Again the apology, again the blank stare returned.

OK, I’ve done enough. We’re all human, after all. Mistakes are part of humanity; as is remorse; as is apology. But something else, also, is part of the human spirit: forgiveness. I’d apologized no less than three times and still had not received a glimmer of salvation. I’d done what I could.

Her refusal to forgive me will, I am convinced, darken her soul and overcome her. She will eventually turn into a bitter, old, woman, alone in her life, with nothing more than her camera at her side, taking pictures of her rotting heart that no one will care to see. She will die. She will die – broken, forever unimpressed, eternally damned to a purgatory of vengefulness and grudges. She will die. But she will have no rest.

All because forgiveness is not part of her humanity. Sad, really. Clearly all her fault.

I cannot let it get to me though. I have to busy myself making amends. Elevating the sport. Keepin’ it classy.

ok this is long....it was over an eleven hour race what do you expect! I apologize in advance

To start this story off right I have to flashback to where I was last year at the end of the 2012 Mohican 100k.  I'm at the finish line both my legs locked up from cramps, wearing a baggy green Nike dry fit shirt and ripped baggy shorts.  I look up and I'm handed a pretty sweet Mohican 100k pint glass!  Hell yea that's pretty cool I think to myself, then it happens, a hundred miler pulls in and he is handed a growler that says 100 mile finisher.  My pint glass just lost all of it's shine

Now a year later now i'm a full blown spandex wearing wanna be mtb xc racer guy, standing at the start with the infamous black numbers on my plate (which means I'm really not as smart as everyone else and doing the longer of the two races)  Now I've put in my dues lost some weight, almost put in as many miles the first five months of 2013 than I did in all 2012 but by no means did I think I was going out to kick this things ass, I still knew I was in for a long day and survival was the most important.  

Andy and I get lined up about fifteen or so rows back with about twenty minutes to go, we really don't have much strategy except stick together and make sure we get up the first hill fast enough we don't get caught up in the bottle neck entering the woods.  Get to state park as fast as we can then find a group that is at a comfortable speed then stick with them.  We were successful no bottle neck and we entered the single track I make a few jokes (I did steal Feeman's camelbak full of Margarita line I think I had a few guys wanting to stick with me) I did intentionally stay in front of Andy for the descent to the covered bridge...usually I get out of his way and let him have fun, but that sometimes means that bike parts get broke not today Andy!  We get to aid station 1 and roll right through it with a couple minutes under the anticipated split time.  Onward to the next stop let's keep this up!

I think we let a little too much adrenaline get to us after running through aid 1 about two miles later I hit a bad line and go down to the side of the trail on my back, then two miles later I'm leading again and hear the familiar "rider down" chant.  It was Andy this time he wasn't hurt but his front wheel was bent so bad it wouldn't spin through the fork.  I think to myself "I guess we'll have to try this again next year"..I sure as hell wasn't going to do the 100 mile solo.  We take his wheel off to inspect it, next thing I know Andy is smashing it on a tree!!  Spins it and says good enough!  We hit the hike and bike up to the horse trail and I start to hear my stomach grumbling....I just realized that I made the mistake I've been warning everyone about..don't get caught up in the excitement make sure to eat when you can.  Well my stomach is grumbling and I'm maybe a quarter of the way into the race...yup probably just ruined my day.  We hit the horse trail which is about as consistent as peanut butter, all I could thing about was eating as much as I can and getting to the road, I remember from last year that it is five miles to the next aid station.

Hit the road finally then it hits me ...five miles up hill I forgot that part.  I'm starting to slip behind Andy on the climbs but I know he'll be there waiting for me and the next stop.  I just need to play it smart slow down a little and try to get my composer back.  We get to aid two I get my drop bag and refill take a few minutes and eat some extra food and get going.

Between Aid two and three it is mostly road with some of the wilderness singletrack as the icing on top.  I keep concentrating on water and eating I have a long way to go and it's not looking good.  Getting close to three I start to feel on the edge of cramping I slow down once again and let Andy go I see him at the aid station.  I was looking forward to getting to aid three until I see all the spectators...now granted they were all very supportive but when you feel like garbage it's like being hazed, and I'm not even to the half way point!!  

Oddly enough when the sign for the course split came up I still didn't think twice about it I came here to get that infamous growler.  But I did however walk the whole wilderness climb I'll admit it this is where I decided to put on my skirt and leave whatever pride I had left on the trail I was going to finish and if that meant slowing down so be it.  I take my time and compose myself then we finally get back to some road.  I know the Holmes county trail is coming up so I will get a reprieve from climbing.  When we arrived we did not get the paved Holmes county trail but the Mohican Trail, but wait this looks familiar to me I've actually been here before when I attempted a double century ride the day before thanksgiving last year (failed that too but I did make it 133 miles to columbus self supported close enough)  When I described this trail to people I called it the Amish super highway because carriages ride on it instead of route 62.  Last time I was here I was on my road bike and it was all mud!  I don't know what happened whether I took it easy long enough my body was catching back up or being somewhere familiar but I finally got my second wind and with Andy starting to lose some speed I actually took my turn pulling on the flats!!
 
Andy and I switched back and forth and actually started making up some time we approached  aid 4 and I realize where I am at...also with the realization that I could ride my bike straight to my house or get to the finish line in about the same amount of time there was no stopping me!  Fellow teammate Rob Yoakum was doing the sweep for this stage and of course the first words out of his mouth was "What took you guys so long?!"  I respect Rob's humor because it is sort of like mine..he'll say something to you that'll make you want to punch him in the face but you can't do it because he's right.  Time for new socks and gloves I needed about aid 3...I take my gloves off to see six beautiful blisters, Rob tapes my hands up for me I get on my new gloves BS for a few minutes about what we are in for and then we are off again.

Between aid 4-4.5 I really don't remember much...just more road..I think some more single track we picked up another rider from PA not necessarily in that order, I just know I was feeling better....O I did flat on one of the gravel descents that sucked but we got up and running again but that wasn't enough to ruin my spirits.

We get to the suspension bridge and I know there is a mini station there with more water, on a better day I would have easily rode across it but at this point I just walked across (remember I put on a skirt and left my dignity behind about 4 hours ago!)  I look to the station and see Doug Fisher!  I met him through a few spokejunkies ride and is a great guy and once again it was great to see a familiar face.  Not only did he offer up water but donuts and beer!  Andy inhaled a donut with sprinkles and I hesitantly turned down the beer and moved forward.

The next goal was just to get back on the 100k course I doubted we would run into any of the racers but just being back on familiar territory would be a huge boost in morale.  As soon as we merged on to the 100k we started the climb up off of the Wally Road climb.  Now we knew this big climb and then the climb back to the top of state park and we were done!  We both had enough water and skipped right by aid 5, back to the state park single track!  Adrenaline kicked in and we hit the blue jay trail to the bottom we cruised across the finish line side by side.  

Random other highlights:

If you are dumb enough and barely worry about self preservation you can do anything!

I can repeat a single joke every hour and it will still be funny (for those that did the race remember the sign "what's long and sticky?"   "a stick!" at the climb after the covered bridge) yea I dropped that one about six times and it did get funnier every time

When you are seven hours into a race it's ok to start complementing guys on how cut there calves are

It is possible to be tired enough that you don't care that you are walking into a bathroom barefoot to use the bathroom while eating trail mix

The best part about completing the Mohican 100 is getting your growler and knowing that you never have to do it again!