Battled and Beaten.

I felt my windpipe getting smaller, yet all I wanted was more air, air my lungs couldn't seem to get quick enough. That's a scary feeling when you still have another 80 yards of rocky climb left in front of you. And you're already in your Granny Gear. And every other racer in your event class is 25 minutes ahead of you.

Not only is it scary, but embarrassing as well.

I found out about the CAT Classic Mountain Bike Race a month prior to its designated Saturday (May 5th), and assumed that 4 weeks of preparation would be enough time to condition and compete in the Expert/Pro field of racers. Oftentimes my ego gets the better of me.

The Friday night before the race, from my apartment in Philadelphia, I drove two hours north to my home in northeast Pennsylvania, and the next morning took the awesome drive west along route 118 past Rickett's Glen State Park, eventually picking up interstate 180 for a few miles, and then finally following some back roads along the pristine waters of Loyalsock Creek to the race grounds on the Logue farm.

It was a beautiful day, sunny, warm, large cumulus clouds overhead, and a surprisingly large turn-out of racers. I parked my truck, hopped out and headed down to the registration building to sign up. I was confident. Even though this was my first race, I was sure there was no terrain I hadn't ridden while training in the Wissahickion Creek Valley of Philadelphia.


On my second lap of the race, somewhere around mile 12, on a small section of open field single track, a pro TREK team rider passed me. I didn't get a good look at him, mainly because the pass occurred as a red and white blur, with the warning of, 'on your right!' a second prior to its happening from about 15 yards behind me.

5 minutes after that a pro Cannondale team rider passed me as well on a technical section with plenty of rock and root. The only memory of him that I have is the mud that his back tire flung up into my face. He didn't give me any warning, probably because at that point I was barely even moving and he understood I was no threat at all to his pass. My right leg wouldn't bend because it was cramped so bad. My shins were cut and bleeding from my pedals tearing into them several times. And my heart, at that point, seemed ready to explode.

It was then the realization hit me that I was definitely in the wrong category of racers. But, I tried to reassure myself, it was a great experience nonetheless.

The 8-mile course was unbelievable. Even though its terrain dominated my riding ability, it was in fact one of the best rides I've ever been on. The first section was somewhat technical, offering mostly wooded single track, a few downhill stretches, plenty of roots, some soupy mud bogs and rocks scattered throughout here and there. The second serving of the 8-mile loop offered a nice recovery over mostly rolling ground. I should specify that this section was a 'recovery' for me specifically, for the rest of the field it was a high-speed area where racers could make up for lost time. And the third section of the course broke me. Climb after climb, rock garden after rock garden, technical downhill after technical downhill, mud bog after mud bog. In fact it's here where my legs stopped working on my second lap. It's here where I lost all confidence in myself as a mountain bike racer. And it's here where I realized I would have been better off turkey hunting that morning.

But to live is to learn. And even though the CAT Classic crushed my spirits, I'll still be riding the old F300 Cannondale 4 times a week, attempting to build my confidence and quad muscles for the next race, wherever it may be, through whatever terrain it may wind. Egoes are easily healed. I think maybe next time though, I'll register in the Sport class. Just to play it safe.