Preface: Yes Astoria was more than a week ago. Yes, time and racing have moved on. As I see it that only confirms the utterly amateur status of this organization. I only unpacked from the trip today, and by "today" I likely mean several days prior to you reading this blog entry, as I make no guarantees that it will be published today. I, like this whole sorry enterprise, am decidedly semi-pro. Now, read on.
Astoria, Oregon is located a long, long way from wherever you are. Portland? More than "just about an hour." Bend? Farther than "just past Portland." San Diego? Forget it. Just forget it. As a veteran road tripper, I have always been good at estimating the time it will take to reach some distant place by car, sort of like hitting the moon with a rocket filled with people using 1960's technology (which tells you more about my inflated opinion of the significance of my talents than about driving a car long-distance). So I have never had to wonder whether it is worse to know how long it will take to get somewhere, or not know. Well, now I do. Know, that is. Not knowing, I now know, is worse. Not knowing that Astoria is more than twelve hours from Walnut Creek is much, much worse than knowing. The "extra" four hours in the car were some of the toughest miles we have traveled. Ok then. Spleen thus vented, on to the good news.
The question must be asked: was it worth it? Oh hell yes:
Seriously, how beautiful do you want it to be? Done. It is that beautiful. However, we have set the scene without first setting the stage. Why would we drive 1200 miles over two days to reach the northest westerest corner of Oregon? To ride road bikes in the mud while wearing Halloween costumes, if I must belabor the obvious. But not just any mud, no, Cross Crusade mud. And not just any costumes, crazy Cross Crusader costumes. I have lived vicariously through on-line accounts of the epic (and I mean fully black-and-white photo Rapha epic) Cross Crusade races, and have openly resented those of my friends lucky enough to participate in those races (I choose my friends largely based on their willingness to accept my naked resentment of their good fortune, and thus leave me free to be myself).
So when KFO and Seamus told us we should plan to attend the Cross Crusade weekend in Astoria, I knew the time had come. The Bomber briefly reserved judgment, and wisely so. Agreeing to do something because you were told by me, Seamus, and especially KFO that something will be "fun" is, well, not smart, and the Bomber knows this. After viewing the Wend Magazine video of last year's race by noted Northest Westerly blogger Heidi Swift, the Bomber had the verification she needed that should she have a hand, fun would indeed be at it. That video would also stand in as an explanation to those we left behind of exactly what we intended to get up to.
Knowing that fun having and rad getting would only be enhanced by the presence of more YSCXers, we convinced J-Green and The Wizard to fly in from Boulder (where they would be taking cyclocross far too seriously), and fly in they did. The fact that neither had ever done a cyclocross race, and in J-Green's case, had barely ridden any wheeled contraption off road, only enhanced their status as true gang members willing to try anything, practice and preparation being nothing more than annoying distractions. And so we arrived to find YSCX Mobile HQ up and running in a secret location at 201 17th street, Seaside, Oregon.
Missing in action, however, were Kevin and Sarah Max, who were on an Italian holiday with a staff of unpaid interns lugging their belongings (editorial digression - it just dawned on me where the word "luggage" comes from), and writing down Kevin's witticisms to be translated into Italian for use at dinner parties on their return home. And by the way, those are their real names. When you are already called Kevin Max and Sarah Max, you neither need nor deserve a nickname. True story: the movie "The Incredibles" was originally called "The Maxes" until Kevin and Sarah sued to prevent their likenesses from being voiced by Craig T. Nelson and Holly Hunter on the grounds it would make them dumber by proxy. (Just so we are clear, by "true story" I mean "hyperbolic fabrication used to mock dear friends who are not here to defend themselves." I hope I don't have to repeat this every time I want to tell a true story about someone.)
It has been reported in disreputable corners of the giant series of tubes that I was something less than perfectly charming and handsome upon my arrival, the extra hours of travel time having taken their toll on my unflappable demeanor. I suppose my demeanor may have flapped a bit, but it was nothing a bottle of Ninkasi Tricerahops couldn't fix. Good lord, that stuff is fantastic. I don't know whether to drink it or just rub it on me. So good, in fact, that I may have had more than my usual 22 ounces of pure beery bliss, adding several more of Oregon's finest to the beer drinking line up. Which would be fine, except for the fact I had to shave my legs that night.
Yes, I am a precious little pretty princess about the leg shaving thing. I can't help it. I cannot go real fast with hairy legs, that's just how it is. So into the tub I went, razor sharp metal fragments in my hand, and a blood alcohol level that would have made me flunk the easiest sobriety test in the country (probably Texas: "Sir, can you get out of the car?" "Yes, officer." "Ok, you're good to go.") Thankfully, I remember nothing at all of the flaying I delivered myself. Scarring was minimal the next morning, so we can all put this down to a lesson learned: shave first, beer second.
Saturday dawned cold and overcast, but no rain on the horizon. Perfect. I love the gloom. The mud, not so much. Don't get me wrong, I was dying to get all muddy and epic-y like they do in the Crusading Northest Westermost part of the cyclocross universe, but I know my limits (having been acquainted with them so often and in such variety throughout my amateur athletic career), and mud defines the boundary of my ability to ride a bike. No matter, acting under orders of KFO to establish YSCX Mobile HQ early, Seamus and I rolled into the infield to find it packed with crossers who camped the night before to secure the best spots. Missing from the already crowded venue was our farm league team, sponsored by some obscure backwoods "medical" office that likely dispensed veterinary care and moonshine in jam jars along with the medicines the backwoods yokels needed to keep the night terrors away. Ah. Hem. It appears I digress. Anyway, the people who promised to save us a space were nowhere to be seen. No matter, we here at YSCX are possessed of precious few cyclocross-related skills. To wit:
However, we have the uncanny ability to find the best spot on any given course to set up the Mobile HQ, no matter how may have arrived before us. And we succeeded once again:
So we set about race preparation. First up was The Wizard, who at six foot seventeen inches fit perfectly on my steel IF cross bike. The rules of the game explained to him, and the intricacies of Campagnolo shifting mentioned in passing, The Wizard was given a slap on the ass and shoved in the direction of the start line. He certainly looked that part, and here at Yard Sale Cyclocross, that's not half the battle, it's the whole point.
We all waited for the Wizard to come rolling past the HQ (except for KFO and Seamus, who can't be bothered to care about the "lesser" categories, and so went home - which just goes to show that if you think we don't like you, we like each other even less.). Then he appeared!
Except it wasn't The Wizard, it was his northern westerish doppelganger, whose presence in the race would confuse us throughout the day. But when The Wizard rolled through, he rolled in style:
As it happens, The Wizard absolutely rocked the course without having been on a cyclocross bike, let alone in a race, before. And thus did he prove the most important of Kevin's "Maxims" (seriously, I can't be the first one to have come up with that): Training and preparation are wrong and bad. The Wizard showed us all that not knowing what you're doing should never stop you from doing it anyway.
Next up were the ladies: J-Green and the Bomber, and Sarah. Except not Sarah, who despite receiving a handsome stipend in the form of free daycare on demand from KFO (seriously, call her any time, I have it all worked out), chose to be in Italy rather than respond to her first row call up while wearing the mighty-black-and-green-but-mostly-black, and thus shower glory on us all. I am sure she expects to be kicked off the team for this, and she certainly deserves it. We cannot, however, let this happen, as it is a far greater punishment to keep her on the team where she can be abused under the guise of friendship. But make no mistake, if it sounds like abuse, it is abuse. And so, Sarah's photo credit:
[PHOTO - LIKE SARAH - NOT AVAILABLE]
Anyway, of the YSCXer's who cared enough to show up, and the Bomber having amassed greater cyclocross expertise in seven races than I have in seven years (for which I totally do NOT resent her and have nothing but love and pride in my heart), we devoted the majority of our efforts to preparing J-Green for the first time she would ever ride a cyclocross bike at all, let alone on a course that returning racers were calling tough and technical. Great care was given to the adjustment of seatposts, the explanation of clipping out of pedals, the mechanics of SRAM shifting, the lubement of chains, and everything else we could think of to make sure J-Green's first cyclocross experience was a great cyclocross experience.
Except, of course, pumping up her tires. It's all in the details, I am telling you.
Unaware that her race would end prematurely (and likewise ignorant of Kevin's pit bike exchange program), J-Green launched herself off the start line and into the fray. I swear, there must be something in the water in Boulder that turns people into crossers without them even knowing it, because she rolled through the barriers like she had done this before:
Had she been blessed with a competent support crew, J-Green would have had a few more moments like this:
Instead, having burped all the air out of her front tire, J-Green came back to YSCX Mobile HQ to discover yet another truism: With friends like us, you probably won't amount to anything. We vowed not to be the limiting factor in her racing experience the following day.
Meanwhile, the Bomber was employing her tried and true racing strategy. Having scoped out the course, the Bomber realized that the two long, bumpy off camber downhills played to her greatest strength. While this may be the most Pacificish Northwestable field of lady crossers the Bomber had faced in her seven week career, she had something they did not. Or more to the point, she did not have something they had.
It would be silly to say any crosser is afraid to fall. Let's face it, that's pretty much the point of this sport. But most crossers have some regard, a passing interest we will call it, in whether they stay up or not. This interest in one's well-being tends to increase along with the speed at which one travels. The Bomber, however, not so much. Or at all:
"Get the hole shot" does not appear on the Bomber's cyclocross to-do list. "Give everyone a great big head start" does. So we watched the Bomber roll past a good portion of the field on the big descent and through the barriers.
Mostly, however, I noted that the Bomber was not bothered in the least by the mud. Which meant either my mud-plegia was not contagious, or it was possible to Go Real Fast in this stuff. Certainly I would be able to hold my own in conditions that did not phase my cyclocross rookie spouse, whose confidence made her look rather fetching:
The Bomber came across the line in sixth, the victim of a sneak attack at the line. That left only one race, the last race of the day. The A race. The race I had no business lining up for.
I consulted Seamus on the appropriate category to enter. His thought: too many people in the Masters B group; the Masters A group, while faster, was of a more manageable size. Telling me to avoid large groups of people is somewhere on the far side of unnecessary. Given the caliber of rider I usually follow around the course, I thought it at least reasonable to believe I would hold my own among the cycling version of those mud skimming fish you see on the Nature channel. I would soon learn how wrong I was, and I suspect Seamus knew it in advance:
As Seamus enjoyed the feeling of having a true sucker on the line, I glanced nervously behind me, and with good reason. In a perverse twist, the Cross Crusade starts its elite women's wave after the Masters A group, all but ensuring I would be caught and passed by scores of fast women. Which is the kind of thing that would hurt my feelings. If I had any. Of greater concern was that KFO would be in that group and chasing me. If that was to happen, I might lose whatever credibility I have managed to manufacture. While I prefer the incredible to the credible under most circumstances, this is a fate I could not accept. So throughout the following 60 mud-filled minutes, one thought kept me moving forward: do NOT let KFO catch you. Seriously, if you knew this was behind you, you would ride scared too:
On the start, Seamus disappeared into the muddy rooster tails of the best Pacificish Northery crossers around, and I put my head down and rode, or more to the point, "rode" my bike. The pictures tell the tale.
KFO's strength is her strength, and there was much wailing and lamentation among the ladies crushed under her wheels on the nasty climb out of the lower meadow. Just so we're clear, that was not me wailing. Or lamenting. No, that was totally a chick's voice.
Seamus, being a sneaky little bastard, repeatedly took shortcuts between buildings to pad his lead over me. Here he is caught on security cameras trying to reenter the course by zipping around the corner of a building while (he thought) no one was looking. Meanwhile, I was happily wishing I would die, but not soon, because this ridiculous sport hurts.
Death would have been sweet relief from the fearsome image in my head of what -- er, I mean who -- was chasing me, which looked a lot like this:
One rather counterintuitive dynamic of the YSCX family is that the lightweight among us - Seamus - is harder on his equipment than the spazoppotamus that fronts this gang. And so, his illicit shortcuts went for naught, as Seamus flatted out of the lead group, and fell all the way back to a group far, far behind the leaders that I could almost see up the road.
In a final bizzare twist, I was not even able to capture the backhanded glory that is lanterne rouge, as some unknown Pacificnorthwesterly crosser was unable to pay his bar tab in time and reentered the race after me, thus capturing the coveted dfl that I might otherwise have taken home as a souvenir of my courage in the face of unrelenting mud.
So ended day one. There are no photos of our heroic efforts to wash the bikes in the middle of a raging rain storm, but rest assured we did. We retired to the YSCX Mobile HQ by the beach for foodandbeer, and prepared for the morrow, whose dawn would break over a field of wheeled freaks like nothing the SoSoCal YSCX contingent had ever seen.
