2016 Downieville Classic XC

[Mark Ingwersen]

Greg said it would be the toughest race I'd ever done. His predictions for the season had always been correct (kind of spooky, really) and yet I took the news lightly and shrugged it off. I'd planned on borrowing a friends XC race bike but couldn't get comfortable on it so decided to prepare my Pivot Les hard tail for another race. Running a carbon wheel set built by Jim and wrapped in bulbous Maxxis Ardent 2.4 up front and Ikon 2.35 rear rubber, I kept the cast iron dropper post to weigh in at 23.8lbs on race day. My tried and true gearing for the season was still working so I didn't bother to change that. It looked pretty gnarly on those big tires and I was feeling good.

I had that good feeling right up until we drove through Downieville on Friday for me to check-in: long travel bikes were overtaking the tiny mountain town with the one lane bride. On race morning I spied maybe 5 other riders on hard tails (including one nut case running a rigid fork) among the 800 entrants.

20 minutes to start, Greg and I cued up in the expert group behind several hundred riders. Team mates Mark and Cathy were in the pack farther ahead with the other all mountain entrants. The rest of the team was surely in their midst as well, but I didn't see them. At 9:35 the start was called and a good minute later and moving like a herd of cattle to the slaughterhouse on a hot day we crossed the start line and were on our way... up. For 8 miles. Greg and I stuck together and shuffled forwards through the pack with the goal of reaching the top before the riders on the plush bikes would. It was getting hot and the climb just wouldn't end. Still, I was making fine progress and caught up to some of the pro group with roughly a mile to go. Cranking past Joe Williams triggered a slow down on my part as I assumed his pace was more conducive to finishing the course than mine. He and I dueled a bit at the Shorty and passing him seemed like a bad omen this early in the race. Shortly afterwards, Greg caught up to me again and I watched him motor off towards the summit.

Hearing metal music echoing though the mountains was welcoming mostly because it meant the climb was nearly over. Of course that certainly didn't mean the hard work was done. The downhill segments on gravel roads were perfect for me: very fast and a bit loose. The trails are what most riders came here for though and I could see why. Well actually, I couldn't. A combination of sharp rocks, roots, trees and a layer of dusty dirt that made that wonderful "poof" sound when you hit it were the surface. The hundreds of tires ahead of me had flung up that trail into a frenzy of debris which hung in the air and on the surface of my glasses wearing face. I felt a bit like a tyrannosaurus by following anything that moved hoping I'd stay on the trail. Miles and miles of this dust had me coughing even after the finish.

I was clearly not on the most suitable bike and overwhelmed by the non-stop abuse the trails were throwing at me. The faster riders would quickly collect behind me and I would pull off to let them go. I wasn't too thrilled about this, but there was no way I could keep pace over the rocks and roots. I tried several times and was surprised how quick I could go, but the pain was too much to do that very long. After the third bridge we had another short climb. Just before reaching the top there were three signs stapled to three trees: "WELCOME", "TO CLIMBING", "HELL!" Jogging up and down the trail was a guy dressed in a red spandex devil suit prodding riders with his pitch fork!  Later on a group of us hard tail riders mysteriously converged. We stayed together only a short while and amidst the haze of dust I have no idea where they ended up finishing, but it was weirdly relaxing to see others suffering like myself.

Greg was long gone. Mark caught up with me as I'd let a train of riders rip past. Mark was just as abused as I was and I think we were both looking forward to finishing. Towards the end, the trail became a super fast, flowy singletrack and I reeled in a few riders now that the surface had smoothed considerably. There was a final down slope to the street and someone yelled that the finish was near. That's all I wanted to hear! Now on flat tarmac with lots of room, I mashed the pedals till my legs burned and tried to pass as many riders as I could... which turned out to be only two or three. I crossed the finish in 40th (ouch) place and ignored the bike wash area in favor of keeping my hard earned dirt a little longer.

Greg was right: toughest race I'd ever done.