Cycling Blogs - Kathryn LaPointe
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WHY? Big Bear Shootout Race Report
June 3, 2009
In my other life, I am a housewife.
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I spend most of most days with my four-year-old son, the youngest of our three children. When he was a toddler, his nickname was “Mayhem Baby.” He could find choking hazards in an empty room.
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We kept our bathroom doors locked, but whenever we visited friends, he’d crawl around until he located the loo. Then he’d wrestle with the caps that cover the screws that fasten toilets to the floor. In celebration of a successful removal, he’d pop them into his mouth.
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When I was packing for last weekend’s race, and corresponding family camping trip, I discovered him sprinkling flax seeds on the carpet.
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“Barrett, what are you doing?”
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“Making a trail.”
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“Why?”
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“To see where it goes.”
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You see what I’m up against, here.
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Minivan finally loaded with bikes, skateboards, asthma inhaler and Pull Ups, our expeditionary force headed up to Big Bear Lake. Nestled in San Bernardino National Forest high above Los Angeles, this four season playground boasts a sparkling lake, ski resorts, and piney mountains riddled with fire roads.
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Team Big Bear has put on bike races there forever, and the trip around Snow Summit is one of my favorite courses. Stunning views, fast and wild singletrack, and a test piece section of downhill called “Fall Line.” Toothy, tight, loose and steep, it took me years to get down it without an outrigger right foot. Or two.
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All race categories toured one big loop, with assorted short cuts for less experienced riders. The expert women were scheduled to ride way, way, way out to a trail suggestively entitled “Wet Dream”.
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Twenty-four miles, at altitude.
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Yeah, no.
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With the greatest respect for the Cat 1 women who log the training hours required to plow that far, that fast, I give up.
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So, with Barrett parked safely on my hip, I spent Friday afternoon in my local bike shop, watching the boys put together my first 29er. Welcome to my brood, please, a Carolina Blue Haro Mary with just one gear.
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On Saturday, we drove four hours up to Pine Knot campground, and managed to assemble the tent without arguing or losing track of any children. It was late afternoon before my husband shuttled me to the top of Fall Line. Two runs, one crash, and it was time to roast marshmallows.
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If you’ve been following this blather closely, you may have noticed that my first ride on a singlespeed would be, uh, the race.
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Does it count that I’ve ridden with single speeders for a year? The Sunday morning shop ride strings together every patch of dirt around my San Diego suburb, an urban mystery tour of stairs, pedestrian bridges and secret canyon trails, all sans derailleur. Except for me. With whose gear grinding they are very patient.
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Me, myself and I constitute the first team Quality Bike has ever fielded. When I started flunking race after Cat 1 race, I asked the owner if he wanted me to take his name off my entry forms. He just smiled and shook his head. And then quietly replaced the rotor I bent falling off a bridge at Vail Lake. And then cut me a sugary deal on the Mary.
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With relief and trepidation, I lined her up back with the Cat 2s. The singlespeed category is open: no age groups or gender breakouts. The guy on my right sat on the Humboldt Green version of my bike, but had buffly kept the rigid fork.
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The only other woman offered that she also raced cross and time trials. And had, like, twelve bicycles or something. All righty then. At least we only had to go seventeen familiar miles.
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Waiting for my wave to be sent off, I epileptically waggled my thumb and index finger. No shift levers. Would I have to walk half the course? Would I able to steer the bigger wheels? Just how irresponsible was I being, knowing that three young children needed their mother to return intact? Should someone be taking my temperature?
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For the last few months, I’ve grimly chased the Expert women, been forced off the singletrack by hordes of itchy Expert men that I couldn’t outrun, and slogged alone into the third hour of races that everyone else finished in two. How could singlespeed be any harder?
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Thirty seconds after the race started, I was up and standing. Ow. Ow. Ow.
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At least I had lots of company. Instead of solo pride sprints, I befriended the back end of the Sport men, assorted women and speedy Beginners. I pushed my bike up a hill next to the fittest senior citizen I’ve ever seen. I pedaled so agonizingly slowly at times that I had time to lift my head, look around, and soak in the soft spring sunshine. I had the distinct and nearly forgotten pleasure of chasing people down.
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I read on an internet singlespeed forum that “gears are for girls”.
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Perhaps. I was so delighted racing that ungeared bike that tears added to the sheen of salt on my face. Still a girl, I guess.
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I plummeted down the last descent, marveling at my giant bulldozer wheels. I came in tenth, behind all the men, but Joe Ninthplace only beat me by thirty-three seconds. Props to the other woman singlespeeder, who hung on to finish some fifty minutes behind us.
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At the end of the grubby day, though, isn’t every race really against ourselves?
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I left the starting line on a bike I’d barely ridden, with my racer psyche battered from months of drubbings. I crossed the finish breathless from effort, but also stunned from sheer surprise that I actually enjoyed myself.
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In the ongoing battle of me versus me, I shaved fifteen minutes off my best time on that course. And found a way to race with dignity again.
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Normally, I am the sort of person who doesn’t return restaurant food if she gets the wrong order. But at the awards ceremony on Sunday I badgered the announcer into separating out the women’s singlespeed results.
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With scores of categories to announce, he was in no mood to rewrite the rules. First he barked at me, then the race director scolded me for bothering the announcer in the first place. Tears again, damn it.
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I have competed in enough teensy female fields to have acquired a box full of medals awarded mainly for attendance.
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But one last time, I wanted my name read out on the microphone. For my children to hear, because they spent two patient hours listening for it in the long list of other finishers.
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For my husband to hear, because he is gracious regarding my absences and lets me buy bikes we can’t afford.
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Because I wanted to express, in some small circular way, my gratitude to the shop guys for believing in me.
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If I never get stand on a podium again, I will be content with the singular moment Monday afternoon, when my daughter, who had been wearing it around her neck, put my medal down on the counter at Quality Bike.
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Top Ten Reasons I Converted to Singlespeed
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1.Provides a face saving reason to downgrade back to Cat 2.
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2.Fewer people sneer when I’m reduced to pushing my bicycle.
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3.The shop guys can no longer razz me about bent teeth on my chain rings.
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4.Sometimes I am required to pedal like a nine-year-old hopped up on Red 40.
4.Sometimes I am required to pedal like a nine-year-old hopped up on Red 40.
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5. I could channel Jacquie Phelan’s fashion sense and no one would blink.
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5. I could channel Jacquie Phelan’s fashion sense and no one would blink.
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6.It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key.
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7.Marla Streb once showed me her SSWC tattoo.
7.Marla Streb once showed me her SSWC tattoo.
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8.Suffering is the human condition.
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9.Because I still can’t play guitar.
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10. To see where it goes.
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