Bear Brook "attempted race" report.

Wasn't feeling it. Had a good dose of negativity floating around my noggin. I figured an hour drive with metal loud enough to make your ears bleed would clear out my head. I was right, but the 20 minute porta-potty line once I got to Bear Brook State Park allowed the negatons to creep back in. Good thing metal makes you drive fast. I had time to spare. Which was good because you also had to wait in line to fill out the registration form, then wait in another line with your form to pay and get a number.

Both my loyal readers probably remember my plan to dabble in some EFTA elite races during the Root 66 break. Well, the elite race at Bear Brook was 39 miles. I don't want to be introduced to that elite race. I'll wait until Mr. Elite Race calms down a bit, then introduce myself.

Meanwhile, it is a perfect day. Mid-60s, super sunny with a gentle breeze. Racing weather. I had a few minutes to burn, so I took a rip through the opening mile or two of the "lollypop" course to see if I can find the feed zone. It rained a bunch leading up to the race, but the singletrack wasn't slick. It had that perfect moist-tackiness, and it snaked; the perfect singletrack for ripping fast turns. I like. My legs felt great, and carving a few turns put me in the right mood. Let's race.

So while waiting for staging, I'm chatting with a dude that introduces himself as Brian Wilichoski. Shit. There's some history there. Let's keep this brief and just say he's my nemesis. Back in my sport racing days, I was superfast, the second fastest sport racer ever. I always lost to BW. He has popped up at a few races here and there since those days just to let me know I'm still his bitch. Years ago I made beating him one of my career goals. Last cross season I declared that goal ridiculous, and figured avoiding him was a more sensible goal.

So the race starts. Keith Reynolds hops out in front. I'm bird-doggin' him. Tracking his every move, just sitting in. I feel awesome. Breathing steady, letting the race unfold. Some guy on a Fisher huffs and puffs past me on an uphill, I watch, half amused at his antics, then pop back in front of him 20 seconds later. I follow Keith a bit longer, then I need to go. I make the pass and spin comfortably past the feed zone that I never found the first time. I drop the bottle I was carrying in my jersey and now feel even better. I can hear racers directly behind me, but keep it steady, just spinning along.

We come to some nice, slightly uphill single track, and I drop the hammer. I plow ahead, pass a few youngsters and take a look over my shoulder. Doesn't look like anyone in my race (Senior 2) held on. Awesome, I'm off the front. I settle in to a nice hammer pace and hope the lead grows nice and steady like, and pray to Jesus BW doesn't show up. I'm flying down along a creek when ...

Now usually when you kick your foot out for no good reason, you're going for style points, like the gentleman above. I'm all for this. On a bike, it usually means your cleats are worn. But my cleats are new? And why does my shoe feel so heavy? Why is there no pedal on my crank? You see where this is going. Short break for a history lesson:

In 1900, the Wrights announced a "bicycle pedal that can't come unscrewed." Pedals were mounted to the crank by threaded posts. On early bicycles, both posts had standard right-hand threads. As the cyclist pedaled, the action tended to tighten one pedal and loosen the other, with the result that one pedal kept dropping off the bike. Wilbur and Orville used right-hand threads on one pedal post and left-hand threads on the other so the pedaling action tended to tighten both pedals.

In defiance of all Wilbur and Orville's hard work, I managed to get my pedal to somehow unscrew itself from my crank. I hopped off the side of the trail, wrestled my pedal from the bottom of my shoe, and tried to screw it back into the crank arm. I didn't have a tool, and if I did, that tool wouldn't have had an 8mm allen or a 15mm wrench. It didn't go in too well, apparently hammering on a pedal that is working it's way out of your crank arm will do a number on the threads on your crank arm. After a minute, I got it halfway on and got back to racing, thinking that the pedaling motion would tighten it. Push, push, push, CLANK! Nope. Ripped her out again, and for good measure, about 10 dudes ran over it while it sat in the middle of the trail. This time I sat there for about 3 minutes picking dirt out of the threads, and managed to spin it all the way on. Then it was fuckin' on like Donkey Kong. Anger is the best race fuel, and mechanicals make me angry.

I was passing people by the handful, which was pretty easy since about 3 waves of racers passed my while I was having my pedal party. My comeback bid was cut short when I looked down and saw that my pedal was working it's way out again. I hate to DNF, I would rather limp across the line in last place than drop out; then I started thinking about how much new XTR cranks costs. My pride does have a price, and it's less than $675. At the next crossroad, I pulled the plug and soft pedaled back to the parking lot via the road. Worst part is I'm not racing again for damn near a month, so this one's going to burn for awhile.

Later that night, in the Bat Cave, I found that my pedal spindle was slightly bent, in a direction that would work to unscrew it when you mashed it on the down stroke. In retrospect, it was probably that rock that I wailed it against when I was riding on Saturday. Pedal spindles bend? Who knew?

I had BW in my sights, I could have crossed one of my career goals off my list. No dice. I think this can all be chalked up to the powers that be letting me know that I do not belong in Expert/Cat1 races.