Wednesdays at Wakefield

It wasn’t until 2005 that I thought about racing again. I’m not sure how I heard about Wednesdays at Wakefield. It may have been Ed Bailey from the Drinkmore Water store who told me about it. I usually go out to Moab once a year as a reunion of sorts of my original biking clan, most of whom have moved out of the DC area. I consider them all excellent riders and I am always wanting to keep in excellent shape so that I can keep up with them on these trips, or, dare I say, leave some positive impression on them of my riding skill. There was no question in my mind that competitive bike racing is a surefire way to take my riding up to the next level. So I tried some of the Wednesdays at Wakefield bike races.

WaW consists of three loops of 3.5 miles of twisty narrow singletrack, some small hills, and some lightly technical roots and rocks. On a casual ride, you would consider this easy. It’s so easy that everyone sprints the entire race. This is why I consider WaW quite a difficult and technical race. Because when you have 100 people start at the same time vying for a top spot on the 1-rider wide singletrack, you get an extremely fast paced 60 minute sprint. The speed, combined with the exhaustion, leaves you careening around hairpin turns, bouncing over rocks, hopping logs, at speeds where you are barely in control. In most sports your mind tells you when you’re tired, usually in the form of discomfort or pain. Not in bike racing. When you haven’t leaned enough in a turn, catch your tire, and flip over the bars, or you careen off the course and narrowly miss a tree, that’s when your body is trying to convince your mind that you are fatigued. Slow down. I usually don’t believe my body until it makes a point. I turn a switchback, I don’t lean enough, my tire is caught, I fall flat on the ground. Zoom, zoom, zoom. I’m laying frozen in the ground, able but unwilling to move, as 5 riders swerve to avoid turning me into roadkill. Quick, before more come, jump up, get on the bike, forget the pain, pedal. Point taken.

The experience begins with filling out a waiver and paying 20 bucks. You get your number and twisty ties to affix it to the bike. I race sport class. There are three main classes, and a bunch of minor classes in between. The main classes are beginner, sport, and expert. Experts run an extra loop and are seriously awesome riders. There’s a pretty clear jump in skill level between all three classes. Most people race sport. They also have classes for female, Clydesdale (200+ pounds), singlespeed, and age breakdowns, but those classes race within their main class.

For about 30 minutes prior to the start riders are nervously pacing their bikes back and forth on the lower gravel trail warming up. Warm-up? It’s 98 degrees in Washington, dc humidity. Who needs a warmup? Then about 15 minutes before start time, racers line up, about 6 bikes wide, and 20 rows deep. Get there earlier, get a better spot toward the front. People generally line up according to their skill level. Being too far to the front or back for your level can really hurt you. If you’re too far in front, people will be chewing at your heels, and you can either stubbornly keep up the pace until you lose control and crash, or pull to the side and let the angry mob pass. Once you step aside or crash, it’s zoom, zoom, zoom… 20 riders can pass before you can get back in.

1 minute to start. Any warm-up I’ve done previously has lost its benefit, as I’ve been standing now for 15 minutes at the start. I’ve had butterflies now for at least five minutes. I can feel my heart thumping. I’m feeling sick, unhinged. I’ve never jumped out of a plane before, but I imagine the feeling being similar to standing at the open door knowing in 30 seconds you’re going to be making your first ever plunge into thin air. Why do I choose to do this? Is this really fun? Maybe if I get a few races under my belt I’ll actually begin to enjoy it. The silence is broken by a masters rider from the earlier race who saunters over to us on his bike.

“Hey guys. Be careful, there’s a nasty bees nest on the course. About 50 guys got stung.”

50 guys?!? Are there even 50 guys in that race???!

“Some got stung even on their second and third loop. One guy had to go to the hospital.”

Ok. We’re all stunned. Shocked. Frozen. Nobody can say a word. This is going to be a death march. I’ve paid 20 bucks for 60 minutes of physical agony and bee stings. And I’m very allergic to bees. It’s too late to step aside. I’m already committed. But I’m stunned, shocked, mortified, I cant even speak.

“I wish you hadn’t just told us that” softly muttered a rider next to me. Two minutes to race time. The race director announces a last minute course deviation, around the nasty bees nest. Somebody will be there to direct racers around it. Phew!!

30 seconds… 15 seconds… 5 seconds… Bwiiiiiiiiiirrrp (a megaphone equivalent to a starting gun). A mad frenzy ensues as everyone knows how important it is to get a good start in this race. Passing is very difficult. Bike racing is generally a courteous sport, not like a grand prix where you’ll swerve to ensure that nobody can pass you. You pedal hard, and yield to a rider if they are going to overtake you. However, at Wakefield the course is so narrow that you cannot simply yield to a rider. There’s no room. And riders know that stopping to allow someone to pass can be deadly, as precious seconds are lost, and there could be 10 people right on the heels of the rider who you allowed to pass. So you save your passing time for a few places on the course where it is wide enough. Even in these places you will have to exert significant energy and a Tour de France like sprint to overtake your rider before the trail narrows back to singletrack. So the good riders know they need to ride aggressively and ignore any innate feelings of kindness and compassion for your bicycling brethren. The best strategy is to get in your proper race positioning early on, and stay there. The race begins with a mad charge up the largest hill of the course. The hill fits 5 bikers wide until it tops out, veers to the left, and turns to singletrack. During this charge, I’m knocked, elbowed, bar-ended, and bumped. About 4 bike lengths forward I see a dimple in the flock, a cave-in; a crash causes 6 riders to buckle over each other and down. Luckily, Im not stuck in or behind this, otherwise I’d immediately be driven right to the back of the flock. I have little choice of line up the hill. The middle or right side is the best grade. But I keep left, where it’s deeply rutted. My wheels spin faster than I’m moving, throwing gravel behind me. This line has fewer people, and a better chance to pass, of course at the risk of crashing or burning too much energy. I summit the hill. It’s too chaotic to look at my heartrate monitor, but I’m sure I’m in the 190’s already, and it’s likely to stay near there for the next 60 minutes.

The filing into single track naturally slows the pace temporarily. I welcome the brief vacation. The course here is very dusty, contains a quick and tight hook to the right, and then down and up a rocky abutment. More twists, then a land bridge, which turns into a very bouncy uneven rock garden. I know only from experience that the strong exertion of the previous minute makes this section significantly more technical and difficult than my mind will admit. One small dab and I’m off to the side, waiting on the tight-packed single-file line of 80+ riders. I’d have to go to the end of the line. My race will be doomed. So concentrate, really concentrate. Focus on stability, scrub speed for stability. Don’t worry, nobody can pass me here, it’s too narrow. Watch the rider in front. Somebody stopping short can cause a dab, and again, off to the side and to the back of the line. The pace quickens, the line of riders spreads out more. There’s at least a bike length between the riders in front or behind me. The first wide straightaway appears. My heart is beating in the high 180’s. I jam the pedals to pass the guy in front of me. The short doubletrack turns to singletrack too soon. The tree forming the transition comes too close too fast. I have to bail on my pass attempt. Damn. I just wasted a lot of energy. The rider in front of me is well aware of my intentions. If he were a very slow rider, having no reason to be where he is in the line, he’d simply yield to me. However, he is a very good rider, and believes he deserves his place and will fight to keep it. It takes a lot of energy to pass, and he doesn’t want to have to spend the energy overtaking me later, so he’s disinclined to yield to me.

I love the next section. There is a downed tree that requires an experienced hop to get over. There’s a well-established U around the tree that almost all riders will take. It would be foolish to hop the tree. It’s a silly risk. Dab and lose a few spots. Or worse, flip over the handlebars, get injured, and lose more spots. I was once so fatigued at this spot I hip-checked a tree trying to go around. Ouch. This time I choose to jump the tree. It’s an easy and sure-fire way to pass a rider. The successful launch over the tree yields a well deserved advancement in place. Yeah!.. passed a rider! The goal at this point in the race is simple. One by one pass riders, without letting any riders pass you. One passed rider is one higher place in the final standings. I get a congratulatory hoot from the overtaken rider. He’s impressed by the gutsy move. He’s pissed, but he knows I earned it and is willing to admit it.

“Hey, if you’re on my ass and want to pass, just call it out.”
“Cool, thanks.”

He’s surprised at my unanticipated display of courtesy. I do this to prevent him from attempting something stupid that will ruin my race, not because I’m a nice guy. Some racers will try to pass, and when they are just to the side of me will see that the terrain in front is not suitable for two riders, and rather than fall back, will just put their head down, tramp on the pedals, and swerve into me, causing a nasty crash that could take us both out. If he thinks he can pass, call it when he thinks the time is right, and if I agree, I’ll find a way to yield. It’s very uncomfortable to ride with somebody nipping at my heels. If I think the rider behind is better and it’s only a matter of time before he’ll overtake me, I’ll find a way to let him pass safely. And the process works much smoother if he calls out when he wants to pass.

The singlespeed racers are brutally good at this sport. They spit in the eye of traditional race strategy and sacrifice the efficiency of a geared bike to that of a single gear. There is some justification for this being that they are slightly lighter, never have rear suspension, and some even ride with rigid front forks. Even with this lack of efficiency in their pedaling stroke, they are kick-ass riders, and will beat nearly any sport class rider. I tried riding this class once. I figured I’d trail the pack, but there were only about 15 single speeders, so I’d settle towards the back, and not have to worry about people nipping at my heels. What I hadn’t realized was that the start is staggered so that singlespeeders start first. Then exactly two minutes later the hyper aggressive masters follow. The top masters racers are quite good. Their years of experience have caused them to completely ignore the pain of the exertion of this race. Three fourths of the way through the first loop I’m halfway up one of the larger climbs of the race when from behind I hear a stampede of pedal mashing and chain slapping. Its getting closer. I’m not going to be able to hold my ground. There is an angry mob of 5 leading riders coming on me quick. They are not in my race class, so I can let them pass and it will not affect my standing. I don’t want to sit to the side and let everyone pass though, as seconds will burn away from my race time. I step to the side, permitting the lead 5 riders through. There is a sixth a little further back. I can keep in front of this guy. I think. I get back on the trail and start pedaling. Too late, the sixth rider, nose down, is on a full heave to try to get in with the pack of five so he too can pass. I’m back on the trail though. I’m in his way. He’ll have to back off. But its too late, he’s fully committed. He brushes up next to me. The trail is impossibly narrow. I feel his front chainring sink into the skin of my ankle. I’m forced off the trail and into a crash. He too crashes. He jumps back on his bike and pedals on. “Sorry man. Really sorry.” He’s gone. I am slower to get up, the blood already soaking my socks. There’s a perfect impression of a chainring tattooed to my ankle. I continue on. I hear the sound of my wheel rubbing the chainstays. The wheel is thrashed. I can’t fix it now. Just keep riding. Five minutes elapse.. POW!! A car backfire? Here in the woods? Holy cow, my tire exploded, and it’s shredded, unrepairable, apparently caused by the friction of the tire rubbing the chainstays. The wheel is old, thrashed. I finish out the lap with a flat tire. As I pass the timing tent I show them the wheel. Race over for me.

The last section of the course is particularly challenging. There is a series of short but very steep hills. You have to push hard on the hills. Any good rider is going to push hard. You don’t want to lose time due to lousy climbing. I look at my heart rate monitor. 199! I’ve hit my max heart rate. I now come out of the woods and onto the crushed stone toward the timing tent. I’m dying. But there’s no relaxing here. The gravel road can accommodate several riders widthwise, and some riders will save their energy to pass here. You need to push it hard until you get back to the singletrack and away from the vulnerable period out in the open. There’s then a short steep incline up an embankment, overlooking the crowd of volunteers, family, and other spectators. It was at this point that a fatigued rider made a desperate attempt to pass me without calling it out. He came to the side and then swerved into me. Only this time I wasn’t injured. Actually, I didn’t even budge. He bounced right off of me, and careened out of control down the embankment. I laughed inside. He was hurting for sure.

I’m now on my third lap of three. Its finally almost over. This is brutal. Am I enjoying myself? Still not convinced. I’m not having a good race. My time is off, and I had a flat coming off the end of my first lap. A flat costs at least 5 minutes, which will put you solidly in the bottom 25^th percentile easily. It’s not exciting to finish the race at the tail end. About 50 yards from the woods leading to the finish, there’s a quick dip and rise. They call this a ‘compression’. My tire compresses, and slams hard into the rocks, causing another pinch flat. A second flat. My race already sucks, I’m 100 yards from the finish. I pick up my bike and run for it. I emerge from the woods, bike on shoulder, undaunted, to the finish. I hear cheering. “Yeah.. you got it! Way to go!” What a boost. Here I am thinking what a pussy I look like finishing 10 minutes off my normal time. Any cheering I get is out of pity. But.. this cheering is not out of pity. They don’t know I have a flat tire. They just know I have a significant enough problem that I cannot ride, and I’m animal enough to run with my bike to the finish line. They are thinking “Yeah.. this guy can’t be beat down. Nothing can stop him. He probably ran half the course with his bike! Yeah go!” Only I know that I just got a flat back about 20 feet out of their sight. I’ll keep it to myself.