To say I was scared going into Trans-Sylvania last weekend is like saying the Pacific is damp. I was quite literally out of my head with visions of sinking like a safe and tanking out on the unforgiving trails of central Pennsylvania, wondering why I choose (often gleefully) to put myself through this time and time again.
Home sweet home. (photo courtesy WTB)
Fortunately, Sunday morning was blissfully sunny and warm as we pulled the two-ton loaded-to-the-grill Tacoma out of the driveway and headed west to begin our adventure. At this point, though still buzzing with nerves, I was definitely ready to get the show on the road. The 10-mile prologue was scheduled to go off at 3 p.m. that afternoon. So we wanted to get there with plenty of time to settle in and warm up before go time. We pulled into camp at about 10:45. When I say camp, I mean camp. The event was based out of the Seven Mountains Boy Scout Campground and we were staying in the rather rustic Rimmey Lodge complete with a resident mouse (or three) and bunk style beds we’d be sharing with about a dozen fellow racers including Rebecca Rusch and her partner Greg Martin; fellow CFers Kristin Gavin, Nikki Thiemann and Christian Tanguy; Mark Weir and the WTB crew; and Mike Wissell out of Back Bay Cycling, just to name a few. I looked at Dave and over at Rebecca who seemed as shell shocked as I was. “We’re gonna be pretty cozy this week, huh? In truth, the little sociology experiment that was Rimmey cabin and TSE ended up being awesome. It was a delicious blend of personalities that made for endless entertainment throughout the entire race.
The race is on. (Photo:© A.E.Landes Photography)
The event kicked off Sunday afternoon with a 10 mile ripping dusty prologue. I had kitted up a couple hours before and got in a pre-ride of the loop with the WTB boys, Mike Wissell, and Mike Cushionbury . It started on a long fireroad climb and then bombed down a fairly sketchy descent before sweeping through the forest on some very smooth, sweet singletrack before returning to some rocks and service roads. It was a perfect mix of climbing and singletrack and I felt confident that I’d do well. I was slated to go off at 3:24, second to last, right after Karen Potter of MTBracenews.com and one minute before Rebecca. I was nervous, but also really ready. Race director Mike Kuhn counted me down and I shot off the line. About midway up the first big climb, I started passing people in the women’s field. About 3/4 of the way up, I passed Karen, who turned it up and caught me as I dove into the woods. We volleyed back and forth on the singletrack until she came around for good near the end. As I crossed the line, I was elated. Rebecca never caught me and I was right behind Karen, who’d started a minute ahead. A few minutes later, I got the word: I’d won. That night I’d pull on the leader’s jersey. Suddenly I was the one to chase. I was thrilled…and yeah, more than a little jittery.
The next morning the race took off in earnest with 40 miles the hard way over some of the roughest terrain central Pennsylvania has to offer. It was also Africa hot with thick pollen-filled air and soup-like humidity. The day started like many with a fast, hard climb to thin the field. I’m not much of a strategic racer, but I decided to play to my strengths this week with one very simple strategy—go like hell off the line and climb with the lead men for as long as I could to gain an early gap on the women’s field. I knew Rebecca could smoke me on the smooth, flowing stuff and Karen has great trail skills and power. They both could likely catch me on long descents, so I had to go early and often if I wanted to defend the jersey. I was off to a great start Tuesday until midway up the first long climb of the day, I caught a stick with my rear wheel, which immediately wrapped itself around my rear cassette and wrenched my back derailleur into my spokes. I stopped and assessed the damage. “$#%@!” Thankfully Chris Eatough (our team coach and all around good guy) was right behind me to help. He kept talking me off the ledge as he slowly but surely unmangled my bike. As I stood working on my dwindling Zen, Karen passed by. “$#%@!” A few moments later, Rebecca passed by. “*&^%!!!” Eatough, still muttering reassuring words, finally got the bike in passable working order, but the shifting was anything but smooth and my gear choice extremely limited. With time ticking away, I jumped back aboard and made the best of it. I ended up catching and passing Rebecca who was struggling to control her asthma in the heat and thick air. But I never caught Karen, who ended up gaining 3 minutes on me that day and taking the leader’s jersey that night. I was disappointed; but I also knew there were five more days of hard racing. I’d get my bike repaired that evening and barring more bad luck, I could work my way back up. That night as Mike and Ray described the profile of stage three—45 miles of mostly fireroads with a few significant climbs—I knew I’d have a chance to make my move.
Happiness is a high speed bridge. (© A.E.Landes Photography)
Tuesday morning brought showers and cooler temperatures. I felt energetic, happy and strong as I rolled out of my top bunk and milled about the cabin. I can always feel a good day and I knew this was going to be one. In fact, it was one of my best. I took off from the gun and never looked back. It was one of those joyful, chainless affairs. A few of the racers grumbled about the lack of singletrack on the day; but the course was stunningly beautiful as it rolled through Amish country, along riverbeds, and even through a pitch black, rustic tunnel. Simply gorgeous. I rolled into the finish about 7 and a half minutes in front of Rebecca who took second on the day and 16 minutes ahead of Karen. I was back in the leader’s jersey that night.
Wednesday was Raystown, the most hyped stage of the week, and frankly the one I feared most. The Raystown Lake trails are like a giant rollercoaster, supersmooth and flowing with lots of berms and jumps. I almost went hind end over head during my last trip to these trails by carrying more speed than I had skill for. As I fretted about the cabin getting ready for the stage, Dave said, “You can’t win it today, but you can sure lose it.” I put those words in my pocket and vowed to ride smoothly and efficiently, but not over my head. I was happy to see the day started with a very stiff, steep climb. At least I could have a fighting chance to get into the woods first. Indeed I did. And I fell into a small train of riders, including Mike and some of the singlespeeders. As we breezed through the trails, I settled in and rode loose and fast,
A real post race cool down. (Photo: Rebecca Rusch)
Chasing is hard work. Raystown was more fun than it looks here. (© A.E.Landes Photography)
Thursday was play day—about 25 miles that included four mini cross country races, each lasting about eight to 10 minutes, including some technical descents. The plan was for the group to roll together nice and easy to the start of each stage then turn ourselves hypoxia blue for 2 to 4 miles before regrouping and doing it all again. I’ll admit I was a bit skeptical of the format, but it was a picture perfect day and it was a welcome breather in what had been a mentally and physically challenging week. The courses were good ripping fun. I rode decently, but I definitely found myself wishing for some rear suspension on the rugged rocky stream bed descent of stage two. How I stayed upright despite rolling like a drunken gerbil in an egg-shaped hamster ball is beyond my comprehension. Rebecca and I stayed close for the day, alternating race wins, with both of us taking two for the day. I eked out just enough time on my wins to take the overall victory for the day. I’d thoroughly enjoyed my day. Yet, pulling into camp that evening, I found myself on the verge of tears. Stage 6 was the next day and it was going to be hard. Very hard. It begins with an 8 mile climb and then goes into some of the most technical, if beautiful terrain in the East. I had a solid 20-minute lead on the women’s field and relatively fresh legs, but the stress of psyching myself up to race day in and out was catching up to me. I started to worry endlessly about all the myriad ways I could crash, burn, and blow all my hard work from the week. I struggled to settle my spinning nerves, but that night brought fitful sleep.
Friday morning was full on dread. I was miserable and though I tried to appear to be my chipper, cloud walking self, I was no fun to be around and Dave let me know so in no uncertain terms. I can race mad. But I can’t race sad. And I felt sad that I couldn’t get out of my way; pull my head out of my hind-end and act like a normal human being. We chatted as we rolled around the venue, warming up until both of us felt better. He then came to the front of the pack with me and set a wonderfully civil pace during the neutralized roll out (which is generally anything but neutral as the pack motor-paces at 25 mph behind the minivan lead out). With my nerves settled, I fell into a comfortable climbing pace as the race officially rolled onto the big ascent. It was brutally hot and humid and by the time I’d reached the top, I was starting to see spots. We turned into the woods for the most technical descent of the day and I turned into instant moron. Ray had warned us the night before to take it very, very careful on the first downhill because we’d be worked from the climb. I’d brushed it off. But there I was, arms totally locked out, heart thumping against my sternum, head swimming, and bouncing down the trail like a potato shot out of a tube of PVC pipe. I actually had to come to a stop about three quarters of the way down to take a deep breath and regain some semblance of composure lest I dash myself—and my race—on the rocks that jutted up from every angle. Once through the worst of it, I settled back into a comfortable riding pace. As I worked my way up to the Tussey Mountain Ridge Trail, one of my favorites in the state, I had decided to put my head up and enjoy the view a little, to take a moment and enjoy the accomplishments of the week. Two seconds later, I clipped my right pedal on a rock and tumbled onto the boulders on my left, gashing my knee. As I got up and looked back I saw Karen coming up the trail happy as a clam behind me. So much for finding my happy space. I hit the gas through the remainder of the race and managed to finish the day in first, gaining another minute or so on the field.
Yay! Play day. The mini XCs were big fun. (© A.E.Landes Photography)
Enjoying Pennsylvania singletrack
As we stood in the grass at the finish line, filling our bottles and snacking on cookies, Karen came up to me. “Wanna call a truce and have a fun day tomorrow?” she asked. I had a 22 minute lead at that point. Rebecca, who had another terrible day with the pollen and heat, had fallen further behind. Our positions were pretty well settled considering the next day was less than 20 miles of fast, non-technical terrain.The singlespeeders, who also had their GC firmly locked up were already planning to fill their packs with beer for a Tour de France style party parade. “I’m game if you all are,” I said. And that was the race.
The next day we rolled along and chatted and laughed, swapping stories and enjoying the trail. We
A bunch of really good sports. (© A.E.Landes Photography)
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