I'm not so sure this was a great idea, because there was apparently some big bass tournament at Lake Shasta the next day, so the motel was filled with half-drunk redneck fisher/boater types, who made lots of noise. These people actually consider sitting there holding a stick and waiting for a fish to bite the string on the end as a real sport. Whatever. I saw a bass boat parked outside that in addition to its 850 hp cummins turbo-diesel outboard engine of doom, also had a little trolling motor up front with the label "All Terrain." What the hell is an all-terrain trolling motor? You think Vandeman gets psycho about old ladies riding 3 speeds in the woods, wait 'til he finds out there are people ripping up the local trails in bass boats. He'll swallow an Alameda Whipsnake.
When the gun sounded, I actually had my pants on this year (a big improvement over last time). The fast guys took off at about the speed of light. I was at the back of the first chase group, barely hanging on, watching my HRM climb gradually higher. I lost track of SuperDan right away, but I was stoked to pull away from Olaf (my arch-nemesis this spring) before we hit the dirt. As we climbed, I gradually picked off a rider here and a rider there. I wasn't really around anyone I recognized, but I wasn't dying yet, so I was happy.
After we past the first aid station and turned off onto the rocky trail, I started to feel pretty smart about bringing my new SuperLight. I felt no bobbing, power loss, or inefficiency on the steeps, but when it got rocky and nasty, I was able to flat-out rail. I quickly dropped the group I was with and started moving up again. After many miles of rocks and bumps, with the occasional steep-ass climb (all done in the middle ring, with my dinner-plate sized 34t cog), I caught sight of single-speedin' scotty shipman. Right after that we came to the 2nd rest stop, which precedes the gruesome push up to the way top.
So I set off down the crazy, rutted, shaley, slippery, scary first descent. I think it's even scarier in dry weather. At least in the wet the little bitty rocks aren't quite so rolly and slidy. Maybe the snow last year froze them together so as to offer better traction. At any rate, I still went fast enough to pass some pro-lookin' guy in an Independent Fabrications jersey. Musta been a roadie or something. I was too far up for him to be some bought-the-jersey-from-Nashbar poser.
Then I came across Mike Larsen, who was running down with his bike. Now I know Mike is not a hardcore technical descender, but I also know he has the skills nowadays to handle just about anything reasonable. I figured something musta gone wrong. My suspicions were confirmed as I came closer and he asked "Got a spare brakepad?"
Since the exact same thing happened to SuperDan a couple years ago (when he was on his way to almost certain victory), I found it pretty ironic that someone else I knew had lost a brake pad. About the last thing on earth you would ever want to do is descend the Lemurian Chute with only 1 brake. I mumbled something to the effect of "Wouldn't you know it, i'm all out", or something like that, and I probably had what I would have considered to be a smile of sympathy.
This part of the trail seemed steeper and sketchier than last year, and I was riding fairly cautiously. I knew I was having a decent race at that point, and probably headed for a podium spot, so I didn't want to jeopardize it with something stupid. I also was still being kind of a sissy with my shiny new bike. I ran one section that I'd never run before because I was getting pretty nervous about my lack of control, plus there was another expert rider just picking himself up from a hard crash there.
Before long, I was through the technical part, and back out onto rolling fireroad. After a few, Mo caught up to me (without a front derailleur now) and said hi. He was just getting ready to drop me when he double flatted (doh!). No one else caught me and I began to mentally prepare myself for the chute.
At this point, paranoia starts to creep in. You're going about a zillion miles an hour, over bumpy, loose, rocky terrain, clamped hard on the brakes the whole way to keep your speed barely under control. You're having a great race, you naturally start to think about everything that could go wrong. Specifically, a pinch-flat, or an overheated rim cooking through the tube (both very common occurrences in the chute). Though I was armed with 4" (rear) and 3" (front) of travel, I also typically only use 40-45 psi in my tires, so I still have to pay a little attention. The downhill really does go on at breakneck speed for something like 20-25 minutes. It's completely unbelievable. I breathed a great sigh of relief when I got to aid station/creek crossing at the bottom. Only a few miles of rolling rocky trail to go.
For once I was mentally prepared for some stiff climbing still. The last couple years I've sort of been in finishing mode at the bottom of the chute, and then been rudely reminded about the nasty climbs remaining to the finish, but this time (no doubt due to my slow start), my legs felt great.
As I rolled across the finish line a few minutes later, I felt pretty stoked. Luckily, I sprinted up the last hill, because less than 15 seconds after I crossed, who should should show up but George. 3 flats, and I still only beat him by 15 seconds! Holy Cow! I'm glad I know how to steer a bicycle.
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