Napa Valley Mud Classic

[Carl Sanders]

All forecasts pointed toward a cold and wet race day. Stuffed into the Summit Van, the rain came steadily down, as the team drove north. Rain or shine, the race would go on. The strongest winds and heaviest rains were expected near 11 AM with a high of 47 degrees. The race started at 10:30 AM. Suiting up, I attempted to wrap my mind around the misery ahead. This would be a special kind of suffering. Into the driving rain, bitter cold and deep mud. Time to pay our dues.

A short warm-up around the school track had to suffice. I was already beginning to saturate. With an even shorter time at start line, the moment of truth was just 30 seconds, then 10 seconds away, and then on! No turning back. Sprinting up the first paved hill, riders aimed at positioning themselves before the single track bottle neck.

Onto the mud, glasses fogged, wet clay sprayed across our faces. More sorting up the hike-a-bike section before the airport above the school. My heart beat and breathing bean falling into pace, cranking past the runway before the first decent. Sliding through pine needle and leaves, I attempted to keep rubber-side down. The course appeared to have taken a few new turns, looping back through tight switch backs, slick downhills and wicked steep climbs. Stay upright becomes my mantra.

The mind still not entirely in the race, I dwell on the discomfort. I can't see squat. My glasses fogged, fingers cold and then the damn chain starts skipping around. The traction is sketchy. Clean lines hard to pick down the steep rollers with blurred vision. I think more about self-preservation and a hot shower, than putting the hammer down. Instead, I should be focused on attacking, gaining position.

Anticipating the last rutted wet climb back up to the airport, I finally commit to racing, giving it all I've got. No more half-hearted efforts. To race and not whine is, after all, what I came to do. Pressing into the pedals, weaving my way up through the riders ahead, I slowly gained position on the steepest ascents. Toping out at the airport I can see one more rider ahead within striking distance. Pushing harder, spinning faster, I close the gap. Just behind him, we bounce back down the short steep rocky pitch toward the school. The rider seems unaware of my looming presence.

Determined to make my move before the last single track down to the finish, I stomp on the pedals, passing an unsuspecting Ryan Booth, only to go careening through an especially slick muddy section, gyrating wildly to stay upright. Surprised not to have decked, I spin even faster, down the final single track, and on toward the finish, squeezing out a podium third place finish.