So lets go, my fifth race report, and I’m not sure if it’s the fact that no one is complaining, or the fact that no who comes to this site reads what I write, but here I am, pounding the keys like the long pavement miles.  We start with the conclusion of the serious Wednesday night racing here in Missoula.  The last chance for the local boys to pound their chest, grab some bragging rights, and try to pick up one of four overall titles on the line.  For the Men’s A’s race Bob Presta just had to finish and he had the overall title locked up.  As luck would have it, he was also in charge of setting up the course; so it was easy to assume that Bob was gonna lay the hurt down on some folks.  I had been looking at the previous results and tried to do some number crunching, it looked like if I finished in the top four I had the overall title for the Men’s B.  Finish fifth, combined with Larsen winning again, and we would be tied for points.   Considering he had actually won a race this season, I figured he would get the title by default.

I did my best to get pumped during the day, while trying not to make a big deal of it; it’s just the Wednesday night race.  While at the office, my boss (who also races when life allows), asked me why I wasn’t at home with my legs up resting for “the big race.”  We cracked jokes and talked about what we were hoping for in the night’s course.  I personally enjoy riding through the fields, where you have to dodge bumps and divots.  He was hoping for more pavement than usual, which kind of threw me off.  Personally it seems like stretches of pavement belong in a road race, give me fields, barriers, an awkward runup, and some other technical aspects to the course and we’ll be good.  Granted I’ve only been at this cross thing for six weeks now, so I might not know what the hell I’m talking about.

Anyway, enough of that, T Bizzle tells us to “get out of here” and we’re off, and for some reason my start sucks big time.  Sitting somewhere around tenth place, I can’t make a pass until we hit the first barrier, were some folks in front of me have some trouble, so I move on up.  We hit the bumpy field and I make something that resembles a move, more than anything I just neglect to shift into an easier gear, and get my sorry ass up to the front.  From there the race will develop into a battle between a group of five.  Over the next five laps everyone in the lead group will make some form of an attack, and I keep my eyes on Larsen hoping he doesn’t take the big “W”.  As we head into the final straightaway, Larsen is in first and seems to have things in the bag; meanwhile I can’t sprint to save my life and wind up in fifth.  So according to my math, I screwed the pooch, and lost the overall.

Hanging my head, I make my way to the messenger bag, pull out the lime green colored bottle of Mad Dog and start to the drinking.  Three hauls later, and I’ve calmed down and accepted that, I still raced as hard as I could.  Cupcakes and beer were provided for the races while the results were called out.  Apparently I suck at math and basically have no idea what was going on, because when they announce the overall winners, they call out my name.  Turns out fifteen points were the margin of victory on my part, and now I’m back to being excited.  We all stand around and congratulate one another, knowing that the series was fun, and before the sun goes down, people head on home.  I decide on the way home, that it’s time to make a leap, and on Thursday I make the upgrade from Cat 4 to 3.  I knew that from then on I’ll be racing with the big boys and will be getting my ass handed to me for quite some time.

Saturday and Sunday was the Flathead weekend, two races up in Kalispell.  The car leaves Missoula at 7 am, full of three groggy slightly hungover racers.  I take driving detail, while Kelly and Sophia get more sleep.  We get to the park, and the gals start to get warmed up for their race.  I’m starting to dig racing with the fast guys, and the later start time that comes with it.  Slowly but surely the whole Missoula crew shows up, and by noon, I’m at the line, and we head off.  My goal was simply to not get lapped by too many folks, and to try to not embarrass myself.  I manage to feel strong, and pass folks in the beginning, and then I settle in.  By far the most difficult part of the course was the switchbacks leading to a flight of stairs, it never seemed like I was moving fast.

I got lapped by Curry on the second half of the course on his last lap.  After he passed me I found a little extra kick in my legs, and power my way to the finish, before Bob and Geoff can lap me.  Standard post race chitchat happens, Olympias get cracked, we all enjoy the freshly baked “hot cyclocross buns” provided, and some of the other Men’s A racer give me some compliments (probably out of pity).  Time to head out, and have some fun before tomorrow’s race.  That evening 15 folks, who comprise the mangy crew of Missoulians and assorted friends head over to casa Shyrock for a huge turkey dinner.  After stuffing out bellies, we head out for a field trip to the Great Northern Bar in Whitefish until 2 am, not thinking about the early start time of tomorrow’s race.

The wake up call comes too early, and it takes 3 aspirins combined with 3 endurolite capsules to get the hangover under control.  A quick stop for some coffee and a breakfast burrito, and the gals get to the park with about 20 minutes to spare. During the Women’s and Men’s B race I try to get ready, but too much booze the night before and too much burrito that morning are starting to spell disaster for my stomach.  I get a pre ride in, and the course is nothing short of brutal, never a moment to recover, and plenty of climbing.  The gang heads off, and immediately I am off the back, not having anything that resembles power.  This is where I will stay for the rest of the race, once again just hoping to not get lapped by too many racers.

The other perk I observed while racing with the A’s is felt like there were more fans hooting and hollering for you when you’re racing.  Downtown Joel Brown earned the Superfan award for the weekend, always walking every bit of the course to cheer us on.  Once again on his last lap Curry laps me, however this time I can’t keep in from of the Frank, Bob, and Geoff, and they lap me too.  The four of us finished closed together, and if you hadn’t been paying attention you may have thought that I finished fifth, instead of one lap down.  Thanks to Butterfield’s broken chain, I cannot claim DFL for the race, but I am well aware that I was probably the most pathetic of all racers that day.  All and all, the upgrade was a good choice, and I’m looking forward to try to pick up some additional knowledge about how to race cross.  My apologies for dragging on so long, if you read all of it, I offer you great thanks.  Keep riding before Old Man Winter starts to make appearances and forces you to ride a trainer in your basement.

Brother Andrew,