A short story about a short racing career.
About 14 years ago I raced mountain bikes fairly often, and for the following few years thought of myself as one of the fast guys. I certainly wasnt one of the fastest guys mind you, as that role was generally filled, as it still is by Rick, Cam the punk ass kid, Norm, Blacksocks, Darin, Matt and a handful of other notables, but I had the distinct honor of at the very least capturing a top five spot in all of the events I engaged in. Though I wasnt training in the traditional sense, I was putting in a retarded amount of miles weekly to maintain my spot in the bottom of the top.
One race in particular found me standing at the start line next to Robert Ives, (who also had his time as one of the fastest folks ever to throw his leg over a one speed), and I was reflecting on the three hours of sleep wed had the night before and the fact that I was still drunk.
The starting shot rang out, and as I was riding I realized that the inebriation was actually allowing me to forget about the pain of the race, and concentrate wholly on not vomiting. That event in particular, if memory serves netted me a third place, and the opportunity to yet again momentarily bask in my tough-guyness.
The remaining seasons were a blur of near victories and crossed eyes until I found myself duking it out with 150 some odd single speeders at the second SSWC in Rancho Cucamonga in our lords year of 1999. Feeling pretty high on myself I was picking folks off left and right, and midway through the race Travis Brown blew passed me with such force, he messed my hair up.
Right then and there, just how small a fish I was, was made abundantly clear to me. Travis absolutely hands my ass to me, and the Euros at the time were in turn doing a pretty keen job of handing Travis's ass to him.
In the years since, Ive bounced in and out of race seasons like a transient on a pogo stick but have never found the near glory I once was accustomed to. New, extraordinarily fast faces were filling the starting line, and the old ones were with more regularity fading away. Ill still get out and punish myself in a cross race now and again, or take my place along side a new crop of fitter, and faster single speed class, looking down their breath-rite stripped noses at me, wondering who the old guy who smells of beer and bacon is.
'Here- have this platter' I gesture. 'Youll be presenting my ass to me on it soon enough.'
Comments
I have that picture framed in my living room next to the pictures of my kids. Racing with you inspired me to be one of the fast drunks. I think their was a season or two that I could consider myself a member of that group, or perhaps I was to drunk to realize I was slow. The CCCC races were what racing singles was all about. Friends, beers, and no gears. I miss my amigos!
Posted by: Sean Hurl | February 13, 2008 02:28 AM
Old memories die harder than us, and as I reflect on the ones you've dug up I can only offer up this:
Through all the dingy bars and push started cars,
through all the jilted lovers and bad "WORD UP" covers, through all the ups, downs and Trader Sam's clowns, through all the lost/found pagers and drunken Sea Otter wagers, through all the broken glass and brownies laced with grass, through all the hung over races and sharpied up faces, all the tattoos and heaved up booze, it's been a pleasure to have you as my wing man and to serve as yours too, for all you do this bud (or diet coke, in my case) is for you.
Thanx for all the unsolicited kind words, your buddy, Robert.
P.S.- I'll start your new frame tomorrow.
Posted by: Robert | February 6, 2008 03:26 AM
Steve, you were one of the funnest people to race with. I still feel bad about losing all of those 45's, I was drunk.
Posted by: Darin | February 2, 2008 11:00 AM
The one beer to have when you're having more than ... wait ... wrong beer ...
Posted by: K-Tel | February 2, 2008 12:54 AM
yeah, remember that one time you and i were racing......, yeah were going to do that again.
Posted by: cockleburr | January 31, 2008 12:00 AM
old people need to race, a bicycle is the best way to straighten out the back, at least for my kind of surgury/inclusion of a metal object in my spine. 44 and starting again after a 10 yr layoff.
Posted by: andrew rosenberg | January 30, 2008 06:07 AM
I like sitting a lot. I don't like racing, though I've done it a couple of times. Now I use two phrases to describe why I may be drinking on the sidelines and not in the mix.
#1 "I'm not a racist. Racism is wrong."
#2 "Hate gettin' beat? Don't complete."
Racing. Psssssht. Whatev. What a waste of a good ride.
Posted by: Sov | January 30, 2008 02:36 AM
I remember you just killing it during a race at Briones Regional Park in 1999/2000. You lined up next to me and I thought, this guy is going to have trouble with these steep fire trails. Nope.
Posted by: Karl Rover | January 30, 2008 01:22 AM
I had the same experience many years ago, except it was on the road (I was an OK cat 2 guy) and the one handing me my arse was now retired road-pro extraordinaire, Frankie Andreu. Damn he was freakishly fast! And he was mostly an also-ran in Euro-land. Made me realize I was a t-ball player. My ego has never recovered. I think I need a beer.
Posted by: JP | January 30, 2008 01:08 AM
That's probably my all-time favorite picture of a mountain bike race, though. I don't care how much maudlin old jock stories you put next to it...
Posted by: JIM | January 29, 2008 11:11 PM
Wow, yer and old fart: one that reiks of dust and prunes, how's that pointy seat treating yer prostate?
Posted by: patbastard | January 29, 2008 12:55 PM
Probably Frank. Probably.
Posted by: Stevil | January 29, 2008 09:30 AM
So does this waxing nostalgic have anything to do with getting your oil checked by Mr. slippery digit?
Posted by: frank | January 29, 2008 09:16 AM