Cloudy skies greeted me as I walked to the garage to grab my mountain bike. I was headed for the Laurel Classic, though, truth be known, I didn’t feel at all like racing. Tioga Tom’s crash had occurred four days prior, and he’d never be racing the Classic again. His death made the race seem pointless to me. Who cares about racing when a friend can no longer ride?
Tom O picked me up a few minutes after 8:00 a.m., lateness unusual for him. Even more unusual, he couldn’t find the front wheel for his bike. We backed out of the driveway to head back to his house, and I saw the wheel lying there in Sherwood Street. I jumped out, grabbed it, and hopped back in the truck for the trip to Asaph. We drove over under cloudy skies and subdued talk, though I did get a bit riled about politics and dropped a few F-bombs along the way. Tom was his usual unflappable self.
Once we arrived, I was heartened to see a good turn-out and many guys I ride with but don’t see on a regular basis. I sat around, bullshitting, while the Race Promoters Supreme, Jim and Jared, marshaled their volunteers and passed out orders. The Beginners pedaled off a few minutes later, and things got quiet around the staging area.
Tioga Tom’s family weighed heavily on my mind. I puttered around before the start, fiddling with my race bib and equipment before finally embarking on a warm-up with Eric twenty-five minutes before the race. That’s usually a bad approach for me—unlike Lizard-Boy, it takes me a while to get the muscles firing—but I didn’t give a shit. After twenty minutes or so, Eric took his spot at the start with the experts while I rummaged through my cooler looking for another water bottle. I heard the horn blast and cleats clicking into pedals as the group turned right in a cloud of dust and headed up Straight Run Road. I sucked down a GU, chugged some water, and rolled to the start. I wished Ted and Heckler luck. Heckler looked at me and said: “Why are we doing this?” “I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m not really psyched for it.” Then the horn blared, and we were off.
I’ve raced my bike a lot, so I don’t get sucked into start antics too often, especially when the race begins with a long climb. Sure enough, a group of guys blasted away. I tried to keep them in sight but not very hard, preferring to let my back and legs loosen up before ramping up my effort. (Of course, I’m also not in shape for those kinds of starts either, but I prefer to make myself sound old and wise rather than old and slow.) Eventually, the main pack pulled away, while those who went out too hard started drifting back, puffing like overworked steam engines. After what seemed like forever—that damn hill has got to be longer than Ole Bull’s opener—I hit the singletrack. My strategy? Ride easy and in control until I felt my singletrack groove. This was only the second time I had ridden these trails, and I wanted to enjoy them a bit, circumstances notwithstanding.
Plantation Trail began well. I followed a young woman on a singlespeed into the woods and passed her when the trail climbed a bit. The previous night’s rain had the soil in that perfect state of stickiness, when tires bite into the dirt, leaving crisp, clean tracks. The air was clear, and the birches, oaks, maples, and other trees stood out starkly. Slick black roots bisected the trail at odd angles, cutting through the occasional moss patch. There were trees all around, and they muted what little light drifted down from the gray skies. As I rode, I noticed pressure building in my bladder—good in the sense that it meant I was hydrated, bad in the sense that, once I have to piss, I can’t think of anything else. Not a good state of mind to carry into Stinger. So, I steered my bike to the left edge of the trail, hopped off, and ran into the woods—not my usual race behavior. Once I start a race, I don’t like to stop. But then again I didn’t really feel like racing. With an uncluttered mind, I ran back to my bike, appreciating all the kind mountain bikers who asked if I was ok. That concern is one of the reasons I like to race.
I caught the young singlespeeder just in time to watch her go over the bars. It was an impressive face plant—slow and precise, like a dance move. She told me she was ok as I rode by. That was the last I saw of her.
Stinger was uneventful. I pointed my bike down the right side of the trail, surfing the scree with my belly on the saddle. I didn’t see a thing except the trail in front of me—no trees, no spectators. (I think I heard my name once.) Smiling as I dropped through the ditch that ends Stinger and onto the gravel road, I thought about Tom O’s guess that he rides Stinger successfully about 50% of the time. Having ridden it a grand total of twice now, that’s where I stand myself.
The next section was uneventful as well—just me and my bike rolling through the trees. I was riding singletrack efficiently and well, enjoying the climbing (easy to do when I’m not gutting myself), and marveling at how damn good this race course is. I’ve ridden my mountain bike in a lot of places—North Carolina, South Carolina, Colorado, Nevada, California, Utah—and the Asaph trails rival any of them.
My second stop came at the bottom of Deer Trail, a tricky descent that I don’t remember all that well. Francis handed me a water bottle while Todd Rudy shooed me out of the middle of the road. I saw Fletch, said hello, and nodded as he told me to blast down Left Straight Run. I blasted all right—both hands gripping the brakes while I listened to another racer behind me yelp every time a jolt on the trail shook his broken toe. (His name was Greg, and he had broken his toe the night before. Tough guy.) Anyway, I let him pass, only to catch him a few miles further on when we climbed up some lovely singletrack splitting knee-deep grass growing in an old road bed. At the top, we rode together for a few minutes until I pulled away, not to see him again until the next water stop.
Brian and Gail know how to run a water stop. AC/DC on the boombox, cold water in cups, and cheers of encouragement. I asked Brian if he had a beer. “Yeah,” he replied, “you want one?” We cracked open a couple—Brian’s too polite to let a thirsty mountain biker drink alone—and chatted for a couple of minutes, the time it took me to swallow the Rugged Trail Ale. Then I was off for the final eight miles of lovely singletrack. By this time, I was really grooving—my bike and body working as one as we cruised through the trails, reading the singletrack like a book. It was fun, plain and simple, and I was amazed that I rode that well, considering I’ve only been on my mountain bike three times this year.
Bombing down Darling Road Trail was like plunging down a roller coaster through a tube of trees. And plunging. And plunging. That descent is so long, it almost gets tedious. I started looking left for a glimpse of Straight Run Road, wishing I had the nerve to let go of the brakes and really blast down the trail. Finally, houses marking the end of the trail came into view, and I knew my long-suffering forearms were going to get a break. I popped out of the woods, heard Dan say “Way to go, Jimmy,” waved, and pedaled to the finish line. My time was . . .well, who cares. I was in the mood for my friends, beer, and hearing and telling stories of our rides—precisely why mountain biking matters.
Rest in peace, Tioga Tom.
