Race report: Catskill Divide Road Race, August 19, 2012

Conventional wisdom says train hard, then taper your training before your race or event. Conventional wisdom says get a good night's sleep. In my world, friends speak louder than that wisdom, so when one says “I really want to ride Deerfield... will you ride with me?” and another friend says “Hey, there's this really cool race you'd like,” the answer of course is yes. And yes.

The morning after 55 miles at Deerfield—after wrong turns, route extensions and a trip to the emergency room for a friend's thankfully minor incident--I found myself in Big Indian, in New York's Catskill mountains. After several wrong turns and the distraction of runners, recreational cyclists, and weekenders, my friends and I pulled in and unloaded. The whole thing was remarkably low-key for a road race, with a group of riders so small that the race organizer decided to put us all together at the start—categories one through five, men, women and a solitary junior racer.

This race bills itself as a super-tough dirt-road race that's comfortable on a cyclocross bike—if you don't mind falling way behind riders on road bikes. I chose my road bike, but did not have time to change out my Michelins for tires with a bit more width and puncture resistance. Oh well, throw more wisdom to the wind.

We rolled out, and I felt more twitchy than I'd expected. Maybe it was the recent memory of my friend's crash the previous day. Maybe it was that I was in such proximity to pros—I was hoping my bike-handling would be adequate for our admittedly brief time together before they went up the road at their pace. We rolled out fairly slowly, no doubt because the Pro/1/2/3 guys (all three of them) had two laps to do, not just one like us.

The first climb broke up things. It was hard to tell who was in what field, but I consoled myself by knowing some of the cat fives were behind me. I had a rider in front of me in sight, and a big gap behind. We zig-zagged through a small town, and I had to squeeze between two cars, one on either side of the road, the one on my side not quite committed to either driving or pulling over. Then it was up a sharp dirt climb, where more riders came into view as everyone's pace slowed. I tried to keep a reasonable speed without blowing up. I did reel in a rider within a couple of miles—the junior, who probably hasn't yet worked out how to dole out his energy reserves--then another, which is always good for a little extra shot of motivation.

We had a group of three on another dirt section, and they seemed to know where to go—which was down a tiny, narrow road threaded between a couple of barns. One rider on a BMC flatted, within FEET of the wheel truck. He got back on quickly. We stretched out and bunched up off and on over the next few miles.

The website suggested mountain-bike shoes, should a rider need to run on part of Townsend Hollow Road. “Not me,” I thought. I thought incorrectly. Mr. BMC came around right as a rider ahead of me un-clipped. I was next. I walked about 50 feet, found a flat spot and got back on. My calves and lower back—parts of my body that I generally do not need to tell to shut up—were screaming as I crested the climb, the road filled with soft soil and fist-sized rocks.

The dirt descents were sketchy, more so than what we encounter on our Tuesdays in Rensselaer County. I rode within my ability, which I thought was pretty good, but a couple of guys just bombed right down them. Fearless. My friend Johny K. says the bike wants to stay upright. Me, too. Again, we'd spread out and re-group. One rider seemed a bit frayed: His bike and jersey looked beat up, and he wobbled a bit. Not the best wheel to follow.

We had more of this sort of up-and-down on the dirt fun for the next few miles, and it actually DID feel fun. My what-the-heck attitude at the start had morphed into spirited competitiveness, and my body felt way better than I'd expected, given the previous day's riding. We had a group of three or four: myself, the guy on the BMC, and the squirrely guy. We worked together, in a ragged way, until the last big dirt descent, where they took off. I was on the brakes, trying to balance the relative dangers of speed and an overheated rim from too much braking, which can lead to a blow-out. I passed a few other riders on the way down, and caught sight of my previous partners soon. The wobbly guy's bike sounded like it was about to fall apart, which was more incentive for me to get around him. We picked up our third again and worked together, until the base of the hill, where we came around the noisy bike. His graceless cornering explained it: he was riding on a flat front tire, at speeds pushing 30 mph downhill. We dropped him out of the corner and worked together for the last couple of miles, trading pulls.

I was wondering when the alliance would split. I wasn't wondering too hard, since I had no idea where we were, place-wise. It was just fun. I took what I decided was my last pull, and then came around him about 400 meters out, and sprinted. I don't think he responded, and I'm not sure if it was due to fatigue or disinterest, but for today at least, I gained a place in the finale. Again, fun.

I ended up sixth out of seventeen registrants, fifteen starters, and fourteen finishers. We were only separated by a few minutes. If I hadn't promised to drive my friends to the race in my car, I may have blown off the entire race. I'm glad I didn't. That was one of my best results this year. I'm clawing my way past the middle.

We hung around afterward, and chowed down on a huge container of fruit the organizer provided for us. I talked with some other racers, people on actual teams—not clubs—and heard some great stories. I even got a pair of socks. Hey, it's the little things. Everyone left with something, which is pretty cool. This race is definitely on my calendar for next year. 

Full results

Promoter's website

Questions About Home Repair

We moved in quickly

once the decision was made

and worked hastily,

filled in jagged cracks

with the malleable goo of

white caulk, tubes and tubes

of the stuff, smoothed with a finger

over rough wood from another time,

a perfect concave shape ready

to be painted over and forgotten--

So now--

years later

I use heat and force to pull

the cracked and shrunken caulk

away from that same old wood,

taking it down deeper now to its

earthy brown essence, peeling layers

of paint—that cheap latex we used

comes right off in sheets--and

I think of the quick fix of

two innocent, ignorant new

homeowners working close

but not together on walls

and trim work, hastily

painting only what's seen,

not really breaking a sweat

or working too hard--the paint

peels in irregular patterns,

until, in maroon under green

under white, a question mark

appears and my work halts,

tools down, as I search,

reach for these words.

Titles

Teacher, judge, critic, arbiter of pass/fail.

Therapist, counselor, seeker of unknown grail.

Good son, angry kid, loyal friend, outcast.

Late bloomer, number-wearer, second, never last.

Friendly shoulder, prickly loner—confused.

Sound shaper, channeler, painting shades of blue.

Handyman, homeowner: measure once, swear twice.

Hold-out, repeater, stumbler, ignorer of advice.

Long rambler, stream-of-consciousness swimmer.

Light seeker, push on as the day gets dimmer.

Cowboy Cornering

On the ramp from I90 to 787,

my hand out the window,

with Rush playing, I remembered

how you once called me a cowboy

for taking this same turn

with confidence and daring--

and I smiled, just then, and

pushed my right foot deeper,

enjoying the tires' sure grip

and the slight sideways force

as my orange car continued to

track firmly and truly.

Weatherman's Advice

Opposites in my head-space:

hot and cold, high and low pressure

colliding at will, mercurial,

changing in a broken rhythm

impossible to count or predict

with the cutting wind of worry

the only constant.

So much to get right, wrong

that it is easier to take the

weatherman's advice and

seek shelter until further notice,

to withdraw, turn inward,

become the observer, spotter,

watcher rather than participant

as what swirls behind my eyes

seems an alien language

or stratospheric music

sung by spirits beyond

angel-demon dichotomy

for this bewildered audience

of one, seeking the cool, dry

air of calm and patience,

but knowing that the root

of temperate is shared

with temporary.

Pace Line

The man on the bicycle is unconcerned

with the rain-slick asphalt and the brakes

that no longer work; rather, he is focused

on the wheel ahead and holding that line on

the black ribbon of road under his tires.

The man on the bicycle will hold that wheel, then

take the lead when honor and obligation require

and part the wind for his nameless accomplices

trailing behind in the water's spray, their tacit

agreement of mutual aid until the road tilts up

or someone bows out, whichever comes first.

The man on the bicycle knows that pain and

suffering are labels, words he chooses to not use

for his circumstances as his body protests his

mind's insistence with shocks of silent fire

the roadside observer will never know.

The man on the bicycle knows the absurdity of

this act, riding a circuit on a day better suited

for ducks, but the rain hits his number, pinned

to him, his whole identity now this, as he and

the others balance on their machines, legs as

fulcrums carrying them on until the white line

slides beneath them and they go slack with

ratchet clicks and beached-whale gasps as

their wheels slow and stop and they

become ordinary again.

Forecast

Forecast says cloudy with a chance of

storms today, portentous clouds that for

whatever reason are not yet ready to act--

something, anything please,

but I know fickle summer weather.

They warned of dangerous bolts

but all I have in my head is loose electricity:

all the power, none of the focus.

The light-quick worry, flashes of anxiety

drawn to prominent objects, bare and

shivering in the plains of my mind--

look closely and you may see the flash

behind my eyes countering my outward calm.

Storms will be localized and intense.

Expect limited visibility and dangerous

head-to-heart lightning that

can be lethal.

Critics

The critics in my head

are particularly vocal tonight:

an unruly sidewalk mob,

groundlings,gutter rabble, 

single-minded and strident, 

as my words try to push their way through,

catching elbows and feet every step.

What do they say? The usual:

None of this is going anywhere.

You were writing so much better

last year.

You're stupid, you put this on yourself

that you could do this--and for what?

What are you getting? No one really reads.

Oh, they might if you wrote something

worth a damn, not this drivel, no sir.

It won't always be like this, I tell myself.

Patience is the way out, the bully-beater

that will make them relent. Until then,

I will be their humble stenographer,

reporter and biographer, convince them that

their thoughts are pure genius,

totally new territory, profound

ideas expressed eloquently

and delivered with just the right

amount of force. Superb! Bravo!

Silver-tongued mastery!

I'll welcome them, catch them

off-guard with my flattery,

get them drunk on praise

and slip away from their

softened minds and do whatever

poetic thing strikes me:

observe the moon at five-minute

intervals; catalog the sounds

on the block, observe what happens

in six long breaths, find just the right

words for the shades of gray passing

overhead, read the dictionary aloud,

write imaginary dialogue for

people behind a cafe window,

order my espresso or pinot or stout

and sip slowly until the words come out.

Backyard Dusk

The city motor drone

dwindles, fades as

mid-season leaves

shuffle on limbs,

one cricket sings

over low hum of

window fans, and

above rows of

painted bricks and

a cat's green gaze,

the crowns of trees

rise and reach to

a sky gone gray.

Perspective

The low sun throws

long shadows,

dark daggers across

the road, its eastern fire

out-shined by the

ambulance's lights

coming out of the

vanishing point

up a mile or so,

lights in my eyes

before the sound as other

southbound drivers and I

pull to the side--

a gesture of respect as

much as anything in this

wide, quiet road, an

acknowledgment of

this mortality messenger and

that even the worst commute

is probably better than that.

The Doe

There was a flash of tan

and white amid the green

as the trail serpentined

through the woods.

My bike and the doe halted

maybe fifty feet apart,

and her eyes and ears

turned to me as the brakes

chirped. Her tail flicked

as she held her gaze and

the moment stretched,

hands falling off clocks

somewhere as time opened

up into the middle of eternity.

She nibbled and scratched,

grooming like the cats at home,

glancing back up now and again.

She casually fed on leaves,

walking slowly now, leaving

me in her blind spot as

she ambled away and the

moment closed and

time resumed.