Life as a 45+4 Cyclist

Racing bikes is better and cheaper than a sports car or a trophy wife when you experience a mid-life crisis. That's what I was telling myself at 6:15am as I lay in bed, aching from head to toe after racing cyclocross the previous day. It was one of the best weekends of racing in the Colorado 'Cross season - Cross of the North in Loveland, which offers up to 3 days in a row of racing punishment . So there I was, trying not to wake my wife as I lurched out of bed and downstairs to prepare for day two of racing.

A few years ago a doctor told me yoga was good for cyclists, but since I have two small children, a working wife, and a 45 minute commute each way each day for work, that meant I went out and bought a DVD instead of joining a studio. As I turned the volume all the way down on the TV (so I wouldn't wake the family) I began to work out the kinks from what I thought was a pretty good day racing. Middle of the pack, nothing special, but for a guy who manages 3 hours of riding a week (including the weekend race and warmup), I wasn't about to complain about that result. At the end of the DVD, my body wasn't in complete revolt, so I packed up a mid-morning snack to eat before the race, and started packing my gear in the car.

Bike, spare wheels, dry clothes, warm clothes (it was 35º when I went outside), beer. That covered it, so I snuck back upstairs, kissed my wife & kids goodbye as they slept and rolled out the door for a ninety minute drive up to Loveland. Even on a Sunday morning traffic on i-25 through Denver can be heavy, but with the Broncos away, traffic was manageable, and the drive was uneventful. The morning before a thick fog lay over the valleys north of Denver, but today it was just overcast, windy and cold. Driving into the parking log, I could see the wind whipping the course tape along the bowl, and a handful of racers on course.

Bike wash & mud pits

Although there were as many cars as Saturday, the cold, howling wind had kept away the families and friends who hadn't paid to ride that day, and races had fewer competitors than the previous day. Even leaving home at 7:30 am, I didn't arrive with enough time to pre-ride the course changes, so I got on the bike and started riding around to get my legs loose and warmed up for my race. Chatting with some of the other racers, I got a brief explanation of the changes to the course, and settled in for the call ups. A lot of folks are excited to get a good callup. I'm a horrible starter, so when I found myself in the 2nd row, I started to dread lap number one.

Thirty seconds.

The whistle blows, and everyone pedals furiously to barrel into the first set of off-camber climbs and drops. I find myself drifting towards the back of the 30-odd racers cresting the first run-up. That run-up ends in a long off-camber drop that turns straight down the hill with a little pop-up and then sharp right turn into a series of tight technical turns. Except that when I hit the bottom of the hill, I'm stressed by the erratic nature of the riders around me, my elbows are locked out, and I find myself momentarily airborne, then face down in the dirt as my bike lands atop me. Moments later a wheel smacks into the back of my helmet, and as I shake my head, straighten my handlebars, and push off (only to discover I had to stop and put my chain back on). I'm now easily thirty seconds behind the back of my race, and barely 30 seconds ahead of the Cat 3 women who started just behind us.

I drop into a higher gear to try and stay away, but with the hardened, twisty nature of the course, I'm barely on the edge of control trying to catch up with the men and stay ahead of the women (and the hecklers happily remind me that there's a teenage girl about to pass me on course). Realizing my race is over, but my $35 is paid, I settle in to try and improve my skills for the next 4 laps of racing, making way for the competitive women to pass when they catch me, and cheering for the ones I know as they do. My head is throbbing, my lungs burn, and suddenly I hear a familiar voice screaming "go daddy go!"

Seems like I know what I'm doing (I don't)

Somehow I manage to turn it up a notch and try to fight back into the race for the only person I don't want to disappoint - my 6-year old daughter. I negotiated the long steep descent without issue for the next 4 laps, recovered from 29th to 20th place, and rode through squirrely mud better than I think I ever have. At the end of the race my legs are gray with mud from knee to toe, my front wheel is squealing from ruined bearings in the hub, and my two little girls are simultaneously hugging me and begging to go home where it's warm.

I spend one lap at the kids course with my eldest who complains her bike is too heavy to pick up over the barriers but does it anyway before her mother whisks her off to a warm car ride home. Three hours of driving for forty minutes of cheering, and they wouldn't have it any other way.