Breakthrough

I raced at the Livermore cross series, my last chance to do so this year, and I loved it. I “won” – first out of five guys in the 35+ Bs – but far more important is the fact that while I raced, Mack and Declan, ages 8 and 3 roamed free around the course.

So while I might have won this very small race, I’m not likely to win Father of the Year.

But they were safe, and they had a great time; I made certain of the former, and was confident about the latter before starting. I’d tried to rope some fellow dads into a cross debut/kid swap, but went 0-for-4 on my invitations (the predominant theme on their emailed regrets was “Great idea, Mike; not going to happen”). So I brought the boys along, swearing to myself that if the didn’t seem like they would be assuredly safe and secure, I wouldn’t race.

The course being my first “European” layout, with twist after hairpin, runup after dismount, the boys had plenty of chance to catch me as I sped – er, rode by. Mack said just before the start, “We don’t want to stay here and play soccer; we want to watch the race,” so I walked them to a good access point, admonished them not to cross the course and hustled back to the start – still swearing that I’d stop racing if I had any reason for concern.

But it went perfectly. I saw them once a lap, each time in a different spot. I spent the first three laps in serious oxygen debt and admittedly didn’t give them much thought, fleetingly happy as I glimpsed them each time around, but then I settled into a rhythm, and my head cleared a bit, and I was able to take in just how amusing and how delightful it was that my older son was leading my younger one around the course, up onto fences for better vantage, twice up and down the grandstand that served as our runup – and finally, after I gaspingly told them “Just two more laps!” back to the start/finish area, where they greeted my with a smile and a hug (Mack) and a pleading “Can I have a piece of candy?” (Declan).

This being a multi-division cross race, I had no idea where I’d finished. I thought I’d made my way to the front of the Bs, and I’d passed a number of the 35+ and 45+ As who’d started 30 seconds in front of us. Mack and Declan thus missed that small thrill that I remember when I would watch my dad place well in running races; one day I’d love to finish with my arms up in front of them. But even being told that I’d finished fourth out of the Bs, and first among my five division-mates, brought proud smiles to their faces, and I’m sure to mine as well.

On the way back to the car, after picking up my medal (which impressed Declan), I spotted Thomas Hoeffel’s daughter Maddie. Thomas had just started the A race, and Maddie was walking from the parking lot to the course alone. She didn’t recognize me, but I called to her, “Hi Maddie. Who are you with?” She replied insouciantly, “My dad.” I again smiled, realizing that my big step, racing while my kids watched me without adult supervision, wasn’t such a big step after all. It’s just typyical, I realized – for cyclocross.

Staying Loose -- the Dirt, not Me

My brother in Portland tells me I don't really understand cyclocross because we don't have mud here. He may well be right. But we do have bark dust, about the squishiest substance this side of Pacific Northwest sludge, and it was strategically lodged in many a tricky corner on Saturday's course at Coyote Point.

I was geared up for this race after last week, my best 'cross race ever, not to mention a great day out with the family. And I remembered the course fondly from last year, as it included a steady grind to the upper end of the park, as big a climb as I've seen in a cross race.

But the day was much colder than last Saturday; the wind chilled Karen's and the kids' spirits and they hunkered under blankets instead of tearing around the park. And Catie's poor friend LuLu was sick -- and I mean sick, including some solid vomiting -- thus leaving Catie and Declan (LuLu's admirer) without a playmate.

Unlike last week, I felt technically spastic around this course, losing traction and touching a foot in probably a dozen soft sections. The organizers (who do a fantastic job with this series) clearly set out to make it a technically tougher course than last year, routing us around one hairpin after another instead of just sending us up the hill. After starting mid-pack, time and again I reeled one, two, maybe three guys in, only to lose them as I biffed a tight section. Then I'd blow up trying to bring them in, and hit the next dicey twist in the trail with shaky attention or balance, at which point I'd botch it again. (In the photo here you can see me chasing a guy downhill -- not something I do too well); he'd started the race around fifth in the series, so I know he's pretty fast, but just a bit later I lost him when I lost it, lightning-sand style, in a soft corner).

All of which left me in...17th place, just one spot back from last week. I chalk this up to a smaller, thinner field; I was a good minute further back from the winners this time, and I was completely shot after the race, so I know I couldn't have given it much more.

I count many excuses -- a cold, maybe not the right tire pressure, and the fact that we drove directly to the race after a full-on chow-down at a charity brunch for a great organization that we support called Vida Verde. They're an environmental education program dedicated completely to getting kids from low-income communities into the outdoors, and they definitely change lives. I was happy to put some organic muffins, goat's milk yogurt and locally-grown fruit down in their support.

I learned that a guy named Michael Gil took second in my race; I know him from road races, when we were very evenly matched. I do wonder if cross is the right pursuit for me, and can't see myself abandoning road racing -- but I also wonder if I have a choice, because I don't see myself coming into more training time anytime soon!

Two Cross Races + Three Kids in a Day = OUCH

It's been said (first by Greg LeMond, according to some) that "it doesn't get easier; you just get faster." I've certainly found this to be true -- though cross brings a new twist: as you get faster, it gets harder.

The first couple of cross races I did my fitness fell victim to my poor skills; regardless of any all-out, gap-closing efforts I put in on the occasional open, non-technical stretch, I found myself losing ground as soon as the trail twisted, turned rough or ran through barriers. So at some point I'd find myself mid-pack with no one within sight ahead or behind me, at which point it's tough to muster much anaerobic effort.

But my skills have come along -- this is relative, mind you -- and this week I caught a glimpse of the top ten in the Men's 35+ B race. That's exciting, but it means that places are starting to matter (to me, anyway; who am I kidding otherwise?), so the effort needs to remain consistent. No more little breaks after blowing it over a barrier; no more coasting a gradual descent, hoping to play it cautious. Yesterday meant riding hard until the end.

But this worked well; my race with the masters Bs was my best cross race yet. Good thing, too, because I raced again later in the day, and that one -- against the open Bs -- was not my best race.

The day, on the whole, was a blast. Karen was a star, supporting the two-race effort with a full day at Golden Gate Park with the kids. Not that this was such ardor; our kids played the entire day with Morgan and Lauren's -- and ate sausage and cookies and donuts, and got comfy in their "clubhouse," a clearing in the trees, replete with urban park accoutrements like beer bottles, but not worse. Plus it's not like I didn't help with kid management; see the attached photo, in which I'm moderating a game of Apples to Apples while warming up.

Team Oakland was out in full force, with some strong showings, but most of all with a great hang-vibe. This was my favorite race of the year, partly because it was a good one for me, but mostly because so many TO-ers come out and take part in what became, over the course of the day, a full-blown party. A narrow run-up became a tunnel of heckling by my second race, with beer-spray, dollar-plucking (from beer bottles, arranged along the course) and the occasional waft of pot smoke.

The hecklers had fun with me, as in my second-race exhaustion I nearly stacked it dismounting and trying to look smooth, though on another lap I did manage to blow by a guy in a Cal jersey in front of the crowd (if only I'd had my Stanford kit on...). But that race was for conditioning, and experience; the first race felt smooth, despite the utter lack of warmup (gotta get that figured out). Despite a mid-pack start, I passed guys all race long, didn't get passed until the final straight and ended up 16th out of 82 -- which means I'd missed the median-placing award of a bottle of Cycles Gladiator only in that final sprint. By lap two I was muttering, Apollo Creed-style, "Ain't gonna be no second race," but fought those demons and managed to enjoy this race as much as any I've entered.

The TO cheering helped, as did seeing Declan running alongside the course, and passing -- not too quickly -- the guys in goofy floral skinsuits. My heart was about to burst through my forehead, and I was pretty sure at one point that if I didn't let up a bit I'd never walk again, but in that cross kind of way...it was, as the kids would say, "hecka fun."