The last two years I’ve raced Ole Bull, I’ve done it as a part of the OCW Geezer Squad. We’ve done pretty well both years, mainly because the other riders were fast enough to make up for my lack of fastness. This year, I decided to ride it solo as a way to train for Iron Cross VII. At the (sorta) last minute, Francis decided to head over with me, which was good, because it meant I had a ride to the race.
After a stimulating pre-race chat about rhetoric and health care reform on the drive over, we arrived at Ole Bull State Park. We picked up our numbers, grilled Mikey about the new course, and wandered back to the car to get our crap together for the noon start. Our goal for the day was to get in around four laps (60 miles) before it got dark while putting in some good training for IC. We got off to a good start: after the Le Mans-style start involving that goofy cyclist-in-cleats-and-dumb-clothes-with-crap-bouncing-around-in-jersey-pockets jog-stumble, we rolled out dead last.
We chatted our way up the first long climb, passing people and saying things like “this climb isn’t so bad if you’re not gutting yourself” and “man, it’s gonna be a scorcher.”At the top, I grabbed some cold water from an aid station and dumped it down my neck. The water turned to steam in about three seconds—a sign of things to come.
Francis and I turned left and rode over to the gas line. This was virgin territory for me. Turns out the course followed the gas line for a mile or so and included the 2009 version of the infamous Frowny Face hill. (Think steeper, shorter, and way hotter than the 2008 version.) Most people I saw walked it, though I have this genetic aversion to walking my mountain bike if I think I can ride something. It’s stupid of me, and I’ve tried to get help for it. So I rode FF. And I paid for it later.
After FF, we descended a bit and took a right into the forest and onto some proper singletrack. Sweet stuff, indeed! A section of whoops led to some rooty sections, and then it was just prime singletrack snaking along a ridge. The section lasted at least three miles and was pure fun. I found myself getting into the flow and ignoring that little voice saying things like “you need to drink something” and “you’ve got a long day ahead—slow down!” (Yes, I include dashes when I talk to myself.) It’s another genetic thing, I guess. Or maybe I was happy to be in front of Francis for once.
My ride was going swimmingly as I passed the second aid station, passed a crew at their hunting cabin drinking beer, and rode onto the center of some doubletrack. I’m a fastidious rider—I try to keep my bike clean whenever I can—and I tried to maintain that fastidiosity as I came to a mud-filled dip between water-filled tire ruts. I popped a wheelie, and cleared the dip no problem. But my front tire landed on the edge of an unseen rut and launched me straight into the brown water of the right rut. So much for keeping my bike clean. I giggled, checked my bike, and tried to catch back up with the guys that passed me.
Francis caught me on the road, and we blasted down new singletrack to the transition tent. I left my baton at the tent and walked to the car for new bottles. Then I told Francis I’d see him on the hill and cruised out for lap two.
That short break proved to be my downfall. I didn’t eat enough nor catch up on the calories I had already burned. It was getting hotter, and I should have spent more time resting and feeding my body. But I’m a dope like that (not a doper, a dope), and I wanted to bust out another lap. Francis caught me on the gas line and rode right past me on his way to the top. I caught him before the singletrack, and he let me go first. I was beginning to get a little sloppy, so I should have known something was up.
Miles later, past the doubletrack, I witnessed some nice nose wheelies over a couple of logs as Francis uncorked his mad descending skillz and led most of the way back to the transition tent. After checking in with the officials, I rode over to the car and choked down some food and water and got ready for a third lap. It was around 3:30 p.m., and I had been on the bike for over three hours.
Francis and I rolled out for lap three at the same time. He promptly dropped me on the opening climb. I had nothing. Couldn’t even outrun the gnats. On the gas line section, I came apart—woozy and nauseous from the heat and weak from the lack of fuel. I hiked my bike up the hills and paused for a long time at the top of FF. I knew the singletrack was in the shade, so once the worst waves of wooziness passed, I coasted down the hill and into the woods. Then the cramps began. I rode through them, repeating “relax, relax” over and over. Oddly enough, I still entertained visions of a fourth lap, proof, I think, that I was delusional. But then I started thinking about the next aid station. And beer. And it just so happened that Brian had beer when I arrived. I knew that if I had a beer, I would not ride a fourth lap. I was self-preservation mode, so that’s what I did.
After a 20-minute bs session with Brian, I swallowed the last of my brew and pedaled about 200 yards to that hunting cabin. Being the friendly Southerner that I am, I hollered: “Y’all out of beer yet?” “No,” they hollered back. “You want a Yuengling or a Miller Lite?” I stopped and sipped the second-best beer I had had all day with David and crew, and we talked about the cabin (it’s been in his family since 1966), local food, hunting (which I don’t know jack about), and life in Tioga County versus Bucks County. After a pleasant chat, I thanked them and bid them adieu and puttered my way back to the start/finish. I turned in my baton and told Mikey I wouldn’t need it again until next year.
And I will be back next year. The course is big fun, and I got a free tattoo, even if I didn’t win. It was inked by an Eggbeater and looks like this:
Watch out, SSWC.
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