I was at my bike shop when the rain started up again.

It has stormed nearly every weekend since January. I am not making this up. I went back to work full time recently, and now have a vested interest in my San Diego sunshine tax. It poured again the Saturday before race day. I was in my bike shop when the water started whipping sideways. Safely behind the windows, the mechanics laughed at me.

“Have fun tomorrow.” Bwaaa haaaaa haa.

The tourist board must have bribed the heavens, because Sunday dawned crisp, clear and beautiful. A couple hundred racers stripped off extra layers and lined up for the Kenda Cup West opener. Long time classic, the Safari boasts an old school course in the San Diego back country. As part of the Cleveland National Forest, the area is used mainly for motorized off highway vehicles. The groomed trails are sweeping, steep and perfectly bermed.

Sagebrush was also my first ever race five years ago, Beginner Women 30-39, check it. I came in last, 45 minutes behind the leader. Auspicious. Allison Mann started riding about the same time I did, and is now making a good showing on the pro circuit.

I know this particular bit of information because Justin Mann chatted with me while he used a power saw to free my bicycle. I had cabled locked it onto my bike rack, and forgotten the key. Thanks, Justin, for giving up a bit of your warm up to allow me to race, at all.

Allison would go on to finish second, beaten only by Pua Suwicki. Having tired of the beatings I got racing Cat 1 last year, I threw myself in with the singlespeed men. (I keep asking Tom Spiegel for a women's category. If you leg mark it, they will come.) I sprinted to the first corner, enjoying a brief turn at the front. Bye bye, boys. Have fun storming the castle!

The infamous two-mile paved climb did its usual job of revealing who enjoyed a polar bear off season. Soon, all the categories were hodgepodged together, fast Sport women inching past the back end of the men, and beginners lung busting past us all. (No one told them about the hike-a-bike.)

I blame my slowish start on Jeret Peterson. More than one evening this year, when I was supposed to be riding the trainer, I was parked on the couch, drinking red wine and watching the winter Olympics.

Jeret Peterson’s signature “Hurricane” ski jump launched him 55 feet in the air, where he proceeded to flip upside down three times, while spinning in a complete circle five times. Two jumps, seven total seconds in the air. Mesmerizing. He missed gold by less than a point. This year’s Safari pro winner, Sid Taberlay, allowed no such margin. The Sho-Air rider beat Olympian Jeremiah Bishop by over two minutes.

I reached Four Corners and cautiously pedaled onto the singletrack. Would it be a saturated, sloggy mess, like last week? Some years, the trails are so dry that the grit acts like ball bearings. Then it is terrifyingly fast. For me, anyway.

What I found was Goldilocks dirt, not too wet, not too dry. The extra tack helped me ride higher on the berms. I am a reluctant leaner, and the traction training wheels helped a lot. Anybody remember the off camber right turn going down to the road? The one before the boulder drop? Last year, I flew off my bike and landed in a bush. This time, I whipped around it without too much brake-age, even. YEAH.

The road leading up to the hike-a-bike featured the usual soul sucking sand. I didn’t even attempt to ride the bottom section of the hill. The beauty of a singlespeed is that no one raises an eyebrow when you get off the bike. During a particularly steep pitch, I straight armed my handle bars and put the bike up above my head. Huff. Puff.

“What’s coming next?” one of the repentant beginners asked forlornly.

Rather, who is coming next?

Sid rode blithely past our cohort of pushers. On his second lap.

“Only three of us saw that, right?” No one has to know.

I had a lot of time to look around, getting up that hill. Hello, Mexico. A lucky birder might even glimpse a golden eagle. These raptors close their talons with 1200 pounds per square inch of pressure; the human jaw can close with just 600. I can explode a bike tube with only 60 psi, if I don’t install it right.

Sid wasn’t the only bird of prey out there. Bobby Langin Sr. smoked the course in under an hour and a half, winning the Cat 1 50-54 age group. Christina Probert-Turner, 43, finished ahead of all expert women, of any age.

I managed to not come in last, as is my habit at Sagebrush. Because it is such an early season race, it has been the maiden voyage every time I upgrade. This year I placed seventh out of eight, but the at least the losing streak is over. Running one gear, and a splashing through a hundred mud puddles, I still shaved an hour off my beginner time.

My legs felt good, finally, by the time we reached Paved-Climb-to-Four-Corners, the Sequel. I traded leads with a gentleman in an yellow commuter jacket. It was so fun, I can’t even remember who won. I adore the Sport singlespeed starting position. There are always people to catch, and to run from. No more races against myself at the back of the elite women.

Are we done with asphalt yet? Oh, looky, it's the Kernan trail. The final downhill. Imagine your favorite long drop, and then double the length. And add mud.

The Kernan trail is where I met Stan Ford. He would feature in any Oscar thank you speech I might give. I was preriding it five years ago on a used FSR, six weeks after I started riding a bike at all. And preriding is an exaggeration of my ability at the time. I was huddled under the trees half way down, trying to muster up the courage to get back on, when Stan and his friends rode by, balanced on their pedals as gracefully as figure skaters on blades. I contemplated knitting as a new hobby.

Back at the parking lot, he said sternly, and I quote, “I better see you at the race start.”

I’ve seen him at many starts, now, as he wages his ongoing battle against Bob Blattner in Cat 1 60+. Bob’s 1:42 beat some teenagers riding the same distance.

Dreaming of Kernan is now how I motivate myself on the climbs. It did not disappoint. The only time I put a foot down was when I happened upon some beginners standing three abreast on the crest of the steepest grade. There was some grumbling, later, about the people parked at random on that section.

Human cyclocross obstacles? I have not forgotten what it was like to linger at the top and wonder how I was going to get down, when even walking seemed impossible.

This year, I delightedly passed about twenty people. Double yeah. But that ephemeral joy isn’t what makes racing worthwhile. That honor belongs to all the people who have blown past me over the years.

Watching others push the limits of possibility shrinks my own demons. Sid, you can ride past me any time. Allison, best of luck. Annabelle Nenninger, welcome back.

Speaking of incredible athletes, did you know the winner of the 50K cross country ski race won by 3/10 of a second? Some of the downhill skiers rejoiced at merely getting down the slopes of Cypress Mountain, at being there at all.

I felt the same about my race. I rode hard, I rode clean, and for the first time on that course, I didn’t bring up the rear of my category. On my home course, and at home on my singlespeed. Good times.

See you at Bonelli.