picture-10 Glorious Mud.

The tree comes for me.  I see it as I climb the horseshoe hill in a small gear, but I still think the inside line looks better.  Taking the inside line on the first hairpin turn leaves me set up to take the outside line for the second, where the path turns uphill.

This is what the pre-ride is all about.  Assessment, analysis, strategy.  How to ride this section…  whether it is more efficient to run that mud or ride it. (Ride it! Ride it!) You find lines, form opinions, and generate theories.  Then you go back to the tent, clean off your bike, jump on a trainer, and begin to bounce your pre-ride theories off anyone standing nearby who will listen.

At least, that’s how its supposed to happen.

Instead, the tree comes for me.

It’s my fault.  Entirely.  I make the most rookie error one can make.

In the nano-second that it takes for me to make the tight left-hand turn and assess the small descent in front of me, I look at the slender truck, leaning ever-so-slightly over into the course, and think to myself, “If I take this line wrong, I’m going to hit that tree.”

And then, of course, I do.

Golden Rule #1: Look where you want to go.

And, conversely, don’t look directly at shit that you don’t want to hit.  Because you will.  Guaranteed.

I’ve been training specifically for this race for three weeks.  The epic Portland, Oregon Cross Crusade Series ended and all my cyclocrosser friends pulled their pansy cards and hung up their bikes for the year.  I can’t say I blame them – we’ve been racing every weekend since August and the truth is, we’re tired.

But I love this race.  The US Grand Prix series.  A national level event.  A spectacle of pros and sponsors and vendors and decorum.  UCI officials show up with fancy white shirts and slacks.  They have perfected their grumpy “I’m in charge” look and they use it on you.

The elite races start with guns instead of whistles.  The course is marked with tape instead of retro pylons.

This shit’s official. And there’s something to that. Something I like.

It’s a far cry from the mud-wrestling, bubble-machine, manure-covered, dead-rat-on-course, shenanigans of the local scene.

Not that I don’t appreciate little dung with my man-eating gravel pit, it’s just that sometimes it’s nice to get all dressed up and stand up straight and race like a big kid.

Which is why I’m riding my pre-ride lap like I’m on a mission.  No fear.  No hesitation.  No lolly-gaggin’.  It’s 29 degrees and the sun only just showed its useless face 10 minutes ago.  I race in 90 minutes and I am ready to rip legs.

The tree has other ideas.

When I hit it, I am not prepared for the sound of my skull against wood.  I expect to hit my helmet.  But I don’t do anything half-assed.  I don’t fall and hit my helmet like your average schmuck. No – I go straight for the head.  Never-mind that the helmet covers most of the skull.  I find a way to get some good skull-on-wood action.

Just above and behind my left ear, to be exact.  Just under the bottom of the helmet.

Don’t ask me how I did it, because I wouldn’t be able to do it again if I tried.

One moment I’m on the bike and the next moment, I’m on the ground.  My legs are still wrapped around the frame, feet clipped in.  I’m lying on my side, holding my head.

My friend Beth rounds the corner.  Beth is known for a few things – strong like ox on bike, good like angel in heart, dirty like potty in mouth.  She is not known for her emergency preparedness or first-aid analysis.

Even still, she handles my tree fiasco like a champ.

In fact, I may never in my lifetime forget the exchange we had as she came toward me:

“Holy fuck. Was that your head?”

“Yes.”

“Holy fucking shit. That was so fucking loud!”

Her trucker communication is strangely comforting.  Familiar and safe.  Someone is swearing a streak.  Beth is here.  It’s all ok.

I unclip my feet from the pedals and she drags my bike to the side of the course so that I won’t be run over by other pre-riders.

We assess the damages for a few minutes until I determine that I will ride again.

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yes, let’s finish.”

The truth is that I’m not sure if I’m ok, so I’m making shit up.  It’s good for both of us.  I find the drops and force the bike into unnatural lines.  My bearings are off.  I’m lost at cyclocross sea – swinging wide, hitting ruts, and riding like a total jerk. Either I’m scared, or somethings wrong.  Either way, this isn’t good.

Back at the tent I park the bike and realize that I really want to vomit.  And sit down.  Yeah, I want to sit down.  Now.  Right now.

The tent is tilt-a-whirl and I would love to find my boyfriend but become aware that he is off on his own pre-ride.

Wait.  Patience.  He’ll come back.  Not ok right now.  Really need him.  Where is he!? Ground shifting again and with the adrenaline gone, the pain comes in waves.  Along with more nausea.

Beth looks over at me and asks if I’m ok and when I raise my head out of my hands to say, “I’m not sure.” I can already tell from the look on her face that I’m totally screwed.

Sal finally comes back and I am not prepared to give up my race.  I spend the next 30 minutes sitting with my head between my knees, pacing back and forth, and searching endlessly for the medical tent, which I eventually find.

Of course, they tell me to go get it checked out and Sal sets off with a resolve to take me to an E.R.  I don’t need an E.R.  I know it.  My pupils are fine and I remember everything that happened.  It’s just a little pain and nausea, a little miniature concussion maybe.  This type of shit happens all the time.

Miraculously, I convince Sal to let me stay.  I even convince him to race. I sit in front of the propane heater in a daze watching my race go by in front of me.

This is not how the USGP is supposed to go down, but I have a plan.  A 24 hour rally.  A recovery.  Heidi Swift will ride again, goddammit.

It’s the last racing of my season and Sunday promises to be muddy.  I am not going to miss it.

When the rain falls later that night, it’s a good omen.  I lay away listen to the rhythm of the pounding in my head against the backdrop of rain on the skylight.  This is going to happen.  My mother is going to crucify me when she hears about it, but I’m racing in the morning.

Sunday’s pre-ride is better.  It’s the muddiest course of the year.  A soft December morning.  Not too cold, plenty wet, eerily quiet.

I get on the trainer, hit shuffle on my iPhone and score a jackpot with Yppah’s “Again With the Subtitles”.  I put it on never-ending repeat and spin. The legs feel good, the heart feels happy, the head will survive.

The head will survive.

I try to remember this as I’m four minutes in with blood pounding against an already-tender skull.  The throbbing is inconceivable. The suffering is epic.

For a moment, I question my decision to race. I nearly pull over.  What am I doing?  Who do I think I am?  What for?  Another mid-pack finish? This pain?  This unnatural cerebral reverberation?  For what?  Why?

But I know the answer.  So I keep pedaling.

I’m here for the mud.  For the rain and the knock-down-drag-out “I will keep riding until the end”  factor. Because December brings me the weather that I dream of and the skies unleash. Because I’m riding a human-powered bicycle on a muddy motocross course that makes pedaling an end in itself and running a cop-out last resort.

I’m here because in April this will all be gone.  These cowbells, this tape, those waffles. The agonizing early mornings. The endless bike washing and non-stop maintenance. Dark nights unloading the truck from the day’s races.  Muddy, wet shoes stuffed with newspaper on the heater vents.  Gone.  All gone.

I’m racing because it’s the last dance.  The final throw-down.  The big show.

Tree be damned, I’m racing in the name of Cyclocross Love.

I bomb down a steep descent and plow into six inches of liquefied inertia. The gray matter inside of my bruised skull is pounding out the rhythm of misery and it feels like home.

I never want it to end.

picture-11 It's over. It's all over. Photo by pdxcross.com

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(Check back tomorrow for helmet cam footage!)