On September 19, I participated in the Chequamegon Fat Tire Festival’s Short & Fat race while Chris and our friend Eric took on “the 40.” This wasn’t a first-time thing, but it felt like it in a sense. (note: this is THE highlight of my year, whether I am there to race or watch. I love the atmosphere and the variety of people. And I absolutely adore the staff of the Hayward KOA who never fail to make us feel welcome and renew our faith in humanity.)
I realized how far I’ve come physically, mentally and technically this year – it became most apparent in the early miles of the race as I pushed through the sketchy riders, premature hill walkers and senseless crashes. Last year, I was one of them. This year I was striving for a goal beyond finishing. I didn’t feel heavy and plodding. I felt quick and strong. The hurt wasn’t my body screaming “you aren’t fit enough to do this,” but rather a marker for how hard I was pushing. I was conditioned to work through it instead of succumb to it.
It was easily my most confident and aggressive race of any sort. I love climbing, and since the Birkie trail offers an abundance of horrific hills, I managed to do most of my passing on the ups. My stature is not such that gravity pulls me down hills anyway, so it typically works like this: I pass the large guys on the up and watch them fly past me on the down, then repeat. I hung with the same pack of guys for the last half of the race and that helped me keep pushing myself.
I shaved 12 minutes off my 1:34 time last year for a 1:22 finish, but fell short of my 1:15 goal. I am satisfied to know I raced the best race I could on that day. I didn’t really factor unavoidable time-sucking mishaps into the equation.
1. Getting to the starting line 30 minutes before a mass start of 800+ bikers means you get a crummy spot in lineup. This means you will waste valuable minutes once the gun fires waiting to move. You will then be forced to creep along for a couple of miles, trying desperately to penetrate the wall of people in front of you. Once you hit the first hill, if you started that far back, you are definitely in a pinch because the pack is still dense, people start falling or randomly stopping, and you can’t plow up it as you wish.
2. I was flying down a hill when two guys collided directly in front of me, which left me no choice but to hit them – my first multi-person crash! I got air once my tire hit someone’s body/a bike; thick sand softened my blow. At the time, only my momentum was hurt. Of course, once I returned home I realized my wheel was bent, but nothing a little truing couldn’t fix. All in all, I enjoyed being momentarily airborne. I think this has made me even less afraid.
3. Remember the part where I said I knew I could work through the hurt rather than succumb to it? Well, I worked through it to the point my body forced me to succumb. I hurled from pushing pretty hard on an uphill. This was highly rewarding at the finish line when I rolled in along two guys on a tandem who witnessed my “moment” and congratulated me. I took strange pride in that. ::grin::
I am already saying my nightly prayers that my envelope gets drawn next spring so I can participate next year. I swore I’d never do the 40, but now I am starting to flirt from afar. Could I do it? I have a few months to mull that over …
In closing, I want to share my favorite photo from the race: this was from the mass start. And, yes, that is me sticking my tongue out in the background. FYI – my biggest fears while mountain biking include a stick to the eye and biting my tongue off. I guess the tongue one is pretty valid; I need to find a safer concentration quirk.
