Jackson Hole

Well, the Jackson Hole race was seven days ago.  I guess that’s enough of a cooling off period.  But before I vent, first some good news:  Construction to connect the Salt Lake City and Sandy/Draper sections of the Bonneville Shoreline Trail will begin soon.  Read about it here—they’re looking for volunteers. 

Now, on to the whining.

Yes, the race was that bad for me.  I knew from the word ‘go’ that it wasn’t going to be a good day.  I don’t know if it was the poor night’s sleep I got the night before, or if I ate the wrong thing for breakfast, or maybe I had been riding too much (or not enough?) lately, but I just didn’t have any pep in my legs.  I usually start out well enough to be in a good position when we get to the single track.  But not this week, I was third to last going in, but only because I passed two guys on the inside of a tight turn. 

It took a lap and a half to convince my legs that it was time for them to work.  In the meantime I was dabbing my feet on the technical climbs and regularly checking my back tire to see if it was flat, because only a flat tire could make me feel as slow as I felt. 

By the third lap I had managed to work my way into fifth or sixth place, out of ten starters.  I was climbing better and figured I could salvage something out of this race.  Then, on one of the numerous stream crossings, I whacked a rock with my back wheel hard enough to blow the seal between the tire and rim.  “No problem.” I thought, “I’ve got two Big Air Canisters with me because I don’t want a repeat of my Solitude experience.” 

One of the canisters was half spent, but I was able to get a bit of air into it.  I rode for a mile and got the wheel to seal up.  I stopped again to top it off with the second canister, but I couldn’t get my valve to pierce the seal on the can.  It was really strange.  I checked my valve, and it looked fine.  I looked at the can; it had a deep dimple in the seal, but wasn’t pierced.  I tried again—really hard, but nothing.  

By then some of the Experts were passing me.  Tim H. tossed—literally; I had to catch it mid-air—his canister at me and I finally got my wheel up to a serviceable pressure. 

No more than five minutes later, I was making a right turn off of some singletrack onto a dirt road.  My front wheel washed out, then my back, and the next thing I knew I was sliding through the bushes.  I was still clipped into my pedals when I came to a stop.  A by stander said he had counted six racers crash in the same spot that day. 

I got back on and determined to finish the race out of principle.  Just before starting my fourth lap (actually just a half lap this time) I saw Mags walking away from the feed zone.  She had forgotten that I was doing a fourth lap.  I started shouting “where’s my water? Where’s my water?” because I had sucked my other bottle dry while trying to fix my flat tire.  Darren, my brother, heard me and grabbed a bottle and started running through the trees.  He caught me just before I set of on the singletrack again and probably was the difference between me finishing the race and dropping out.   That’s the second time in two years his quick thinking saved me from dehydration. 

So yes, I did finish.  Yes, I was last.  Actually I was seventh, because three riders dropped out.  I guess I need races like this to appreciate the times when things go well.  But it is starting to seem like it’s been a while since things went well.