As soon as I open the hotel room door, I go directly to the TV and start surfing for the Weather Channel. The 2009 Chickasaw Trace Classic looks to be a repeat of last year's mud festival, and I’m getting nervous. Several trips between the balcony to survey the sky and back to the television for more “local on the eights” have me feeling like a patient waiting for bad news from a lab test. I stopped by the race site to preregister and pick up my race number before arriving at the hotel. While there, I scouted a small section of the trail and it teetered on the verge of last year’s muckapalooza. It only needed an overnight drenching to become mud soup.
As I stand helpless on the balcony, the sky over Columbia fades from sunshine to a menacing gray. In an almost Biblical fashion, the developing clouds turn darker and unleash a depressing amount of rain. I can only hope everything will move through quickly and allow the trail to set up over night.
When I arrived at the park on race ray, I was pleasantly surprised to discover the storm from the night before moved off quickly and the trail settled overnight. All that remained behind was very cold temperatures and a few muddy places scattered along the trail. The race is on!
I find a spot in the middle of the front row and summon the powers of Geoff Kabush to see me through the race. When the horn sounds, one racer shoots off the line in a full sprint and opens an instant gap on everyone else. As the group makes the first soggy corner into an open field, the lead sprinter is now several seconds off the front and adding time with every pedal stroke. One other rider about 25 yards behind follows him into a screaming headwind. I find myself on the tail of a small chase group of five or six and decide to attack. I gradually open a gap on everyone in the chase group and eventually grab the wheel of the second racer in pursuit of the lead sprinter. With that catch, I make the single-track in the coveted third position. My heart now firmly lodged in my mouth and my lungs desperately grasping for oxygen, I can do little but hold on for dear life and wait for my pulse to come down to a more sustainable level. "It's a long race," I keep telling myself. "Just find a groove and settle in for the long haul."
As the trail progressively turns more tight and twisty, I hear a chorus of squealing brakes close behind and know my third place position is in jeopardy. I have the second place rider right in front of me, and can clearly see the sprinter through the trees. I start to relax and look for that groove again.
It isn’t long before our little train catches the tail end of the 30/39 group, which started two minutes ahead. Things now turn a little more confusing and tactical. The front of the 40/49 group slowly blends with members of the 30/39 group, which makes it virtually impossible to know who is who. I do my best to recall the various team kits from the start line, but eventually just determine everyone in front of me and everyone who passes me to be a competitor. By this time, I guess I am in the fifth or sixth position with at least three riders less than a minute behind. After finally finding a comfortable pace, I settle down and work on making it to the finish.
Everyone begins to string out a little more on the second lap, but I occasionally catch a glimpse of the racer from the Columbia Cycling Club a few seconds in front of me, so I know I'm at least in the top five. I manage to close the gap and grab his wheel in a few hilly sections, only to lose everything I worked for in others. I really start to worry when my left thigh cramps on a rather nasty, rock invested, climb. Now, there's really no excuse to cramp in 40-degree weather, other than I'm an idiot. I simply haven't learned to drink enough and subsequently have electrolyte problems. It's an ongoing drama with me. In any event, my left leg completely locks, and I'm stuck in the middle of this climb unable to move for several seconds. I turn to a photographer on the hill and say, "I can't move my leg. I'm stuck." Eventually, I manage to dismount by tossing a peg leg over the bike like a cycling pirate and hobble my way to the top. After remounting pirate style and continuing down the trail, I ever so slowly manage to work the stiffness out of my leg as I take up pursuit of the Columbia Cycling Club racer. By this time, he is out of sight and probably long gone, so I concentrate on keeping my pace up in hopes of not being passed by anyone down the trail from me. I continue toward the finish driven by the fear of blowing it at the very end. This eventually pays off when I spot the Columbia Cycling Club racer through the trees with about a 20 to 30 second time advantage. When we finally emerge from the woods into an open field, I start eating into his lead ever so slowly and hope to catch him on the final run to the line. His gap is down to about 15 seconds when we make the grassy uphill approach to the finish, but I realize the gap is too large when he makes the turn for the finish and I come in seven seconds later.
I finish the day with the forth place position and won a nice Nike Jersey for all my hard work.
Some race photos can be seen here.
