The Big M'Fing Race Recap: Flourescent Like Blackout

Corey and I finalized loading the Prius and left the D St Hotel at 5am on Thursday. Consider the two weeks leading up to the Lumberjack 100, I had one hope whispering in my ear as we took off on what would prove to be a 14hr drive to Michigan. "Maybe the planets will align. You never know."

I've driven the route to Manistee so many times that we barely needed the art-laden directions that Mrs. Snob had drawn up. If it hadn't been for Corey's attempt to "hold it" through Chicago traffic, it would have been an uneventful drive. Thank goodness for the 'Lincoln Oasis,' (which is ironically its true name. Thanks, Abe) because otherwise the Prius might have gotten damp.

We hit check-in once in Manistee, picked up our usual pre-race meal of Soy Milk, pastries and bananas at the local grocery and stopped in town for a relaxing dinner. It was a little like we were on cruise control. We'd already hit several races together this year and, as tired as I was, the sense of routine was welcome.

We stayed on remote until we arrived at the Big M. Corey was concerned about his lack of morning constitutional, I was still half asleep and sleep walking my way through putting my bike together. At one point, Corey looked over and asked if I was okay and I said, "The Lumberjack wants to pick a fight and I'm just happy to be alive." At the time, I thought it was the greatest "Incredibles" reference ever made, but Cornbread hadn't even heard me. Momentarily offended, I then realized I had mumbled it like a two year old and tried to focus on perking up.

We chatted with Dr. Cale, half-listened at the prerace meeting as we stuffed our styrofoam support crew under a picnic table, then soft-pedaled our way to the start. We saw Harlan on the way, chatted a bit about who was there and how we felt, then Harlan was off to his call up. Corey ushered Sydney up with the call ups as well as I pondered how to handle the start. Of course, as I stared down at my front wheel with two feet on the ground, the race started.

"Well, I guess this is Lap One."

The course lap started with a sanding stretch which lead to a short steep sand dune climb. I am sure a few people rode it, but a road start on a single speed lead to a herd of riders pushing bikes, some walking, some like me trying to run cross style. I will say this. It spread out pretty fast. I got the pedals moving and felt a mental comfortable with the course because I had ridden there before. My body however, gave me one of these...

"What the... what the hell are we doing? We're fucking racing?!?!? Good God what the hell is wrong with you?"

The plan I had was to really maximize the trail. In short, flow. So, in that spirit, I washed the front wheel out in a very loose, sharp right-hand turn about a third of the way in. I felt fairly stupid, apologized to the two riders behind me and set back out. It was one of those laps where everything seems like it takes a little bit of extra work. Things aren't quite there, but maybe they will fall into place. I rolled into the pits in a bit over two hours, reloaded for five minutes and headed back out. Time for lap two.

Early in lap two, I heard a rustling in the woods and looked right to see three deer running beside me. "That's cool," I thought. The trail then turned right into their path and I locked up my breaks as bambi blazed by a couple of feet in front of me.

"They'll avoid you," came a voice from behind.

"How the hell would I know that?" I asked.

Of course, now it's cool. At the time, it freaked me out.

Shortly after this point, my body just came unravelled. My eyes were watering and itching as if I needed to go to bed and my pace slowed substantially. It's sad when you start talking to your body as if it's going to respond.

"Dude, what the fuck?"

"Blow me. I'm tired."

I didn't have any huge nutrition mistakes. My body just decided third gear seemed about right for a while. The cadence was slow. The mind was slow. Slow. S-l-o-w. Even when someone was an ass about me passing them, I had nothing. Anger is an energy? Not today.

At some point, probably mid-lap, I shouted to no one, "I just want the fuck out of this forest." As you can guess, it didn't really help.

I rolled into the pits after two and a half hours and began trying to play mental games to stay with it. Training ride mode. Just ride. Don't race. My legs did come back a little. I firmly thought at the end of the race that my third and fourth laps were faster than my second. In riding time, they probably were.

The only thing I remember about lap three is getting lapped by Chris E and Harlan. Usually, that would stoke a fire. Nope.

I started lap four by pausing several times on the sand dune to consider turning around. I never did. I went a bit farther until it made not sense to ride back and I just rode. I encountered a few single-speeders near the end of the lap, but didn't feel like fighting them for spots. One guy crushed himself to get away from me after I had caught up to him and another just flat out caught me. They wanted it. They earned it. I ended up 18th SS.

I rolled in oblivious to the cheers of friends. Said nice job to a single speeder who had passed me, then sat in the grass with Syd and Corey, edgy and asking for cold water. Apparently, we had all encountered a demon. I just got mine out of the way early. Danielle Musto came over and chatted with us. She rocked it to a W. I should have introduced myself but didn't think to do so.

Despite being the multiple personality disorder on the day, the Lumberjack intrigues the hell out of me. It forces you to pay attention in ways a lot of races don't. No gravel roads or open two-track. No chances to chill and spin. Ride your bike, all 100 miles. In hindsight, treating it like a 24hr race with support would probably be helpful, but that's for next year.

Fast forward to the awards ceremony. I had a blast. Again, I failed to say hello to people I should have (sorry), but it was good to actually sit and talk with Dr. Cale, Kris and Joe P. Not to mention Corey and Syd. Syd even rocked an arm-wrestling match in high style. Lincoln pride restored!! However, the Niner/Founder's crew had the other end of our table. Three trophies. Represent!!

In the morning, Corey and I drove back to Lincoln. Ironically, once we arrived home. I thought of Neil Cassady. We'd drive thirteen straight with me behind the wheel the whole time. We didn't use the radio or CD after Chicago. All conversation. It figures. Wanna write like Kerouac but drive like Cassady. Maybe next year I'll ride Lumberjack on benzodiapine and write my report on a roll of paper.

Or not, I always thought "Dharma Bums" was the work of choice.

*

There are two frames hidden under there.

Our styrofoam support crew.

S'up Rocker?