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So, I hop back in the van on Sunday after Reno's UCI cyclocross extravaganza and notice one of those things you wish you’d remained ignorant of. I’ll admit it, I was in a bit of funk because I’d flatted for the second time and couldn’t blame it on anything but my own crappy riding (the rock had NOT moved since the last time I’d hit it). I was slumped in the seat, watching one of the Jack-Maynards throw his hands up in victory and turned away to spit when I caught a glimpse of my mug in the mirror.

Sticking out of my right nostril was the mother of all nose hairs...about a foot long and bristling with vitality. It was just shooting out of there like some frickin’ nasal compass needling, "Due north captain, full rudder!" And, to make matters worse, the damn thing was GREY! Great...old and disgusting.

So, as I stared at this monstrosity shooting out of my face, I was flooded with flashback after flashback of conversations had throughout the day...images of peoples’ eyes darting down to glance at my nose and a weird, uncomfortable expression crossing their faces soon after. Shyte, I’d been Cyrano de Bergerac without even knowing it. I even remember bending down to give a cute pucker to the Hart’s new baby and seeing the poor little thing squint at me for a moment, then turn away in repulsion. I’d thought the kid was just passing some gas...now I know the truth. Good lord, probably scarred the little bugger for life.

So, not only was I riding around all day with a jersey that was 2 sizes too short, creeping up my waist and looking like a late 70's tube top from the front and showing my plumber’s crack from behind, I also had this alien nose hair reaching out and trying to strangle hapless babies.

Christo. Oh well, the dork-o-meter has always read pretty high for me...so, what’s another few points on the richter?

Anyway, Scott ‘Death before Dishonor’ Fifield and I had agreed before the 35+ race that, no matter what, it was going to be a local winning that race. No damn foreigners were going to come in our backyard and leave with the goodies. I think Scott took it to heart because he shot off the start line at about Mach-flippin-8 up that hill. I was digging to stay in contact, gasping ‘good lord, he’s going to rip my legs off.’ Now that I think about it, that effort is probably what turned that ridiculous nose hair grey...probably snatched a couple years off my life, too.

So, a few minutes later it was time for my first flat of the day. Fifield and some Californicator in white were galloping away as I was trying to ride a front flat over to the pit. Now, to begin with, I pretty much ride dirt like a blind epileptic having a seizure - but throw in a front flat and it makes for straight-up ugly on a stick. To recap, I’ve got my tube top jersey on, plumber’s crack showing from behind, renegade nose hair happily pointing out the north star, and now I’m riding a front flat around the course looking like one of Jerry’s Kids on meth.

Ladies, stand in line, there’s only so much of this to go around.

I hop on Max’s bike when I reach the pit area, but the seat's up so high it’s like riding a Selle Italia enema. And the stem’s waaayy too long so it’s a bit of, "wee, look at me riding daddy’s grown up bike!" I swish and swirl around a lap, trying not to squish the jewels on that seat, until I get back to the pit where, thankfully, Max has my wheel changed and I can switch back to my own bike. To the races!

I look up the course and see a little white speck that is the Californicator and a little red speck a bit behind that is the hardman Fifield. I say a little prayer of "crush him Fifield," and put my head down to try and salvage something from the race. As the laps go by, I feel better and better...really able to float up the long road climb that finishes the course.

Eventually, I’m lucky enough to roll up to Fifield and give him a ‘come on,’ because we’re still 20 or 30 seconds behind the white guy. Scott and I separate on the climb a little bit and I go ahead and try and reel in Whitey by myself.

Another lap rolls by and I finally meet up with Whitey at the top of the road climb. It’s obvious that he’s laboring and I realize that time is running out in the race and it would be best to throw a stake in the heart of this bad boy right now. I accelerate at the top of the climb past him to increase his effort level and let him know that the race is ON, baby. At this point, I think there might have been 3 laps to go, but I’ve got to say, I was in the zone and wouldn’t have cared if there were 10 laps left...let’s party.

We do a loop and Whitey’s sticking like glue. He puts an acceleration in up the long runnup and I smile, "yes, work hard buddy...soon, soon." We ride the bottom end of the course and I retake the lead through the playground barrier section and take a quick glance back to see that Fifield has recovered beautifully, never giving up and always ready to suffer. Damn, I admire that guy. So, Fifield is within 15 seconds now, and in a good tempo. I start to think that, if the planets align, we might be able to steal of a 1-2 finish out of this thing. It was time to pull a little roadie weaponry out of the bag. If I can put a knife in Whitey, really make him explode, maybe Fifield and I have a chance. Let’s give it a try!

As we approach the long climbing section, I intentionally flub a corner to slow us down and see if Whitey will take the lead. He’s having none of it and stay s behind me to take advantage of the draft for the long approach to the climb...perfect. I accelerate hard out of the corner for 4 or 5 seconds to jack up his heartrate, and then settle in to a beefy speed, giving him no opportunity to recover. We turn off the dirt and on to the road climb. This is it...time to do or die.

To really crack someone, you’ve got to bring them up to a slow lactic boil and then slash with everything. As you all know, riding a climb at your own tempo is always a more efficient way to hit a gradient - you stay in your own zone and can recover after the effort and start riding hard again. But, if you go too far into the red zone, pushing yourself farther than you are able...you blow up. And, when you blow, it can take minutes to recover. It’s like blowing a gasket in your car...and when it happens, the wheels come off, baby.

And so, we hit the road climb together and I brought the speed up slowly. Whitey knew he was the superior technical rider (by FAR, folks...this guy was unbelievable), so he knew he just had to stick on the climbs for the last few laps to have a chance at the win. He was glued on my wheel as I slowly increased our speed up the climb. I visualized his heart rate behind me, increasing with every pedalstroke. "Steady, steady...be patient - bring him up more, wait for the breathing to get ragged...NOW!"

BOOM. About halfway up Whitey exploded and I hit the booster rockets. He’d gone too far into the red trying to match the pace and had blown. It might work! Fifield, riding the climb in his own tempo, was able to make contact with Whitey on the next lap and then power past him on the climb, too. Wahoo, 1-2 finish for the homeboys. Satisfaction.

A bit after that race, I started with the Elites very conservatively. I began picking off riders during the first few laps and moved through the field to stare a top 4 finish in the face. I’ll admit it, the legs were a bit stringy from the first race, but I was at a level of suffering that I knew I could maintain for as long as needed. And, I was riding faster than all but 3 of the riders...so, my morale was high. And then, I mother-bleepin flatted again...on that same damn rock!

Expletive - spit - expletive.

For 4th place I could take the pain. I could swallow all the blood needed to stick it out...but for 12th? No, I bagged it. C’est la vie. Overall, it was just a beautiful day of racing. The course was magic, the organization clockwork, and the prizes kick-booty. I love this race and we’re really lucky to have it.