Wayne Scott Cross: Pit Happens

This past week's stop on the cyclocross magical mystery tour was in Fair Hill, Maryland for the Wayne Scott Cross. I headed down this week with John Cutler and Kyle Peppo and we left "The City" at an ungodly 5:15 am so we could get to the county fairgrounds in time for the first races of the day.

The course was a nice mix of terrain and mostly flat. There was a large sand pit that was rideable but had several hairpin turns. The course also took the riders through a barn and under a pavilion housing the beer keg and BBQ station. The loop was very long and the C field only completed 4 laps in their race.

I was looking forward to the start. There was a long opening sprint and a wide open "prologue loop" that would allow me to move out on the field. Also working in my favor, was a second row start position earned by placing 11th at Granogue. I lined up with the 57 other riders and waited for the whistle. When we got the signal, I quickly moved out and up the left side of the field. I easily won the holeshot and made a move early in the first lap. I gained a small gap and held it, hoping to spread the field out. I figured that I would ride the first lap hard, force a chase and then settle into a lead group that would have some breathing room. I enjoyed riding at the front. I was able to pick my own lines and ride relaxed. After the long sand pit, two barrier sections, barns and all the hairpin turns, I was still well out in front at the end of the first lap. I began to relax.

On the second lap, I continued to lead, but slowed just enough to allow the two chasers up to me. I figured that together we could work to move out from the rest of the field. Unfortunately, I lost my focus for a split second entering a tight corner. I let my weight get too far over the front wheel and it washed out. I went down and the chain dropped, allowing the two chasing riders to catch up and pass me. While in pursuit, yet still in contact, with a lead group of three or four (including myself), I managed to pinch flat. In an attempt to bunny hop a small log barrier, my wheel made hard contact and the 35 psi was not enough to ward off the damage.

Demoralized, I rolled around, slowly, for the rest of the lap until I reached the pit. One problem existed: I had no spare wheels or bike stashed away. I figured that by some stroke of luck I would be able to recognize a team mate's wheels, but I could not. Not only did I get passed by a whole heap of riders while getting to the pit, the racers kept flooding past me as I stood there just waiting to step under the tape and pull the plug.

Just as I was about to head out and grab a beer in consolation of my fate, my team mate Eben came sliding into the pit. Without hesitating, he handed off his bike and sent me on my way. In a matter of second I was back on course grappling with the conflicting voices in my head. I didn't want to continue, but a team mate had completely sacrificed his own race for me to continue, so I settled on pulling back as much of the 3 or 4 minutes that I had lost standing around. As I began gaining steam, I started passing the riders who I hadn't seen since the starting whistle. Some had gone out hard and blown fuses, others were clawing back time they may have lost by a slow first two laps. In the midst of the race we were all just proving something to ourselves.

I gained momentum as I desperately tried to salvage my race. I was passing guys faster and faster as I worked my way back up the the major bolus of riders that comprised what was left of the "main field." I eventually caught back up to Adam Duncan, who was so lost in his own delirious exhaustion, that he cheered me on. He was fully convinced that I had managed to lap him late in the race.

Finally, the end came, and I sprinted past one more rider on the line. After waiting for the final tally, I found the results sheet. I had slotted into 18th place. Not bad, but not what I had hoped for. The two riders who had chased and then passed me when I crashed ended up going first and second. Bryon Kremer, who had finished in second place at the Whirlybird (in his first cross race) was third. I have no doubt that I was capable with a podium finish in that race, but Cyclocross is about accepting the turns in fate and learning from the less than ideal circumstances. It also good to be reflective enough to avoid making the same silly mistakes over and over. I promised myself that the cross season would be a welcome break from the serious and self-critical machinations of the road and track season. I promised that I wouldn't take myself too seriously. Unfortunately, I am a victim of my own ambition. I always take myself too seriously. However, in honor of my promise, I will chose to laugh about the way things went.

I will also take some valuable lessons away from this. First, I am lucky to have found team mates who are willing to help me take myself too seriously. Eben went beyond what I would have expected from anybody. He handed me his bike so that I could keep riding. Sure it was a little small, but it got me to the finish. When he rolled across the line on my bike, with a 10 speed wheel jammed into its 9 speed drive train, I realized that I could only smile. The nonchalance with which Eben dismissed my thanks was evidence to the spirit of the venture.

The second lesson is about why most of the people ride cross. It doesn't matter where you finish. Every rider earns the respect of their peers just by toeing the line and staring down the racecourse. There is little to prove, except what one needs to prove to ones self. Every cross race eventually dissolves into a contest of internal wills. At that point in the race, we are all fighting our own demons- the ultimate beauty of cross is the private, internal race that unfolds and allows every rider to achieve their absolute limits.