Gloucester CX Race Report

There's not much to write about this one, but since I need to get established in the Which Blogger Sucks the Worse at Cross Competition, here goes.

I entered the B Masters at Gloucester. Normally I do the A Masters, because after all, I am a studly Team BOB hombre with at least a smattering of road racing palmares, and the B Masters are for graybeards and fatties. (Here is photographic proof, check out the Maxxis dude, now you'll understand how Feltslave podiums in these things. And of course, note my sense of style. Meg claims the knee sox are her thing, but anyone who was at Lynnwoods in '88 knows I've been doing the support hose since she was still in her training thong). Of course, I don't take cross too seriously, and last year I only managed to crack the top 50 once or twice. As a Cat 3, I am entitled to choose between the A and B masters, and being 45 and all, there should be no problem with me doing the B's. It's not like I have a wall covered with medals or anything...

So for Gloucester I decide on the B's. The A Masters were already almost up to the 125 rider field limit, and since I start slowly, the sixty or so in the B's was sounding good. Last year they wave-started the four fields in the 9 am race, so I had every reason to believe they would do it again this year. But they didn't. Not really anyway. They started the C-men (huh-huh) with us, so I got to participate in a 125 rider group grope after all. The 55+ men would start 30 seconds behind us, and the B-otch women after them. In this group, there are no callups, so dopes like Feltslave and Zoo were camped out on the starting line like Sox fans at the ticket booth on Yawkey Way for days before the event. I wandered down there about twenty minutes before the start and ended up 55 riders back (I counted), still better off than the herd behind me.

The gun went off and we roared up the hill. I'm pretty much stroking it, and lose at least ten spots to guys who charge up on both sides. Predictably, we hit the bottleneck going onto the dirt and carnage ensues, but I slide by relatively unscathed. We wind around the grass and onto the dirt highway along the water, and now I'm rolling by a few. Through the chicanes I opted to run rather than risk getting knocked into the tape by one of the numerous pinheads whose only hope is to take out half the field. I make it to the hurdles in one piece. Here is the video:

3 MB Quicktime Movie courtesy of The Cronoman, aka Roman Pulansky Marro.

That was the end of the highlights. On the way down the big sweeper, I went to go back to the big ring, and overshifted. Of course, this is a 47T on the cross bike, so there is no pin to keep the chain out of the crank arm. Flying down the hill, I frantically work the front changer in a futile attempt to get the chain back on. It's total chain suck time, and things are looking bad for your hero. Forced to dismount, dozens of places are lost as I struggle to untangle the mess. Every swinging dick in the field is by me, as well as the not-so-swinging 55+ field, and even a few of the leaders in the B-dickless class before the chain gods finally relent and let me get going again. The Polar shows me at one elevation for 45 seconds. FUCK! I start motoring, and honest to god I am thinking, shit, at least now I'll rack up some points in the suck competition.

Of course, being able to easily pass people is a tremendous motivator, and since the riders around me are all AARP-eligible, I start flying through the field. For a lap and half I passed everything in sight, about 50 riders in all. By then I was getting a little blown, and one guy in a THF kit actually passed me back. The lead bee-ootch was also keeping pace, because I could hear here incessantly screaming at every one behind me "race leader coming through." So I settled in for lap three, sitting on a group of about six, including Mister THF, who seemed really fast on some parts of the course, but slow as shit on others. So he became "the guy" as in the guy that I am going to dust in the sprint up the hill. The Cronoman is screaming at me to take the entire group of six, but my motorcycle is low on fuel so I stayed put. THF dude is barelymuven the last time through the sandpit, but I stayed behind him rather than use energy going around through the deeper sand. On the remount I took off, and torqued it up the little climb just past the pit to make sure he was dead. The remaining five from the group had splintered; I went by one or two during the surge, but there was one more way up the road as I got back onto the pavement. I sprinted like it actually mattered, and took this guy back for about 10 seconds in just 100 meters, garnering my reward of 31st in the B Masters, 12th out of around 25 who were over 45.

Not sure how the Vegas judges are going to score this one. IMHO B Masters suck at least as bad as C men, and I should get a 50 point suckage bonus for finishing behind Zoo, who did a stellar ride after an inspirational visit to the race by his parents on Saturday. Thanks for reading.