Rally

2do Rally de Montana in Hermosillo, Mexico.

A 66k mountain bike race in the foothills near Hermosillo. 8000 pesos ($800) for first place, trailing off quickly down to fifth. Originally the race was supposed to be 100k, and it should be next year.

The trip down was draining and difficult, as usual. We arrived to the standard confusion and lack of direction. Where’s the vineyard? What time does the race start? Where? Who has his cell number?

But, as always, things work out in the end, and they usually work out well. We stayed at the Bugambilla, opting out of free but 20 minute further accomodations. More confusion at the race–there were two categories: Libre (Open) and General. Open meant elite/money, so Odin and I signed up, not knowing how competetive this race was to be.

The race started, in true Mexican fashion, at least a half hour late, but it was fine with me. I lined up and recognized the jersey of Armando Zacarias–one of the top racers in the world and certainly there to pick up an easy 8000 pesos. My teammate and junior national champion Dan Castillo was there too. Other than that I didn’t recognize any other strong riders. But we were the only two in Libre riding without XTR, with camelbaks and without shaved legs.

The race started fast. We climbed on pavement and I knew I was in for the standard mtb race hurt. And they said this was an endurance race! Ha. A group of seven formed at the front, with me in seventh. I moved up to the front once when I felt rested, just to see what the reaction would be.

I am horrible at fast starts, so I hate them, but they are something very powerful. Pedaling furiously, struggling for air, all while so much is unknown–how will I feel today, will my bike hold up, can I ride faster than everyone else? Everything becomes irrelevant as you focus only on pedaling hard, hoping that you aren’t going too hard. It’s a visceral experience. Certain moments are etched in my mind from the starts of races. Power and guts, using others as an opportunity to push harder.

We climbed through Bachoco and I knew the singletrack was nearing. Zacarias broke off on a short climb, gaining a 100 yard lead. On the crest of the next climb I saw him look back for challengers. He saw nothing and pedaled away for the easy win.

The rest of us rode together until the singletrack, when I was forced to back off. I have not trained a minute for speed and the start was already taking too much of a toll.

The singletrack was great–they know how to build fun trails down there. At some point we turned onto the Tremo section, which I have never been on before. A few very technical challenges cropped up where I caught glimpses of the two riders in front of me.

As we exited the singletrack onto fast sandy dirt roads I could see the rider in front of me. At the base of the next climb, paralleling the highway running into town, I passed him. He was right on me after a frighteningly loose and steep descent, not letting go of my wheel. We climbed through a number of sandy spots, then things got ridiculous.

Jason Spencer’s nick name of “sand boy” during the Soul Ride this year paid off. I rode through quickly and gapped the rider behind me. But soon the sand was too much, even for sand boy. I was walking.

The straight tire marks in front of me had me wondering if the top five riders in front of me were riding it all. I started jogging.

I turned a corner and saw nothing but more sand. Was I still on the course? Why didn’t anyone mention something like this to me? If I was on the course, I was happy–anything that makes a race more brutal and demoralizing is good by me.

Finally the sand ended and a dirt road climbed steadily towards a pass. I lost a concept of where I was in the sandy section, but as I climbed over the pass I could see the city below. It was a terrifyingly beautiful view. I had the sensation that I was too far up–like I was looking down from an airplane. A large construction road took me to the bottom and then, another shock, the finish line! I had only been out on the course an hour and the lap was already finished. That was far sooner than I expected.

Hottie was no where to be found for a hand-off, but the lap was so short that I didn’t need it. I started climbing the road again, happy with person, place and time. I had recovered from the system meltdown caused by the fast start; I was feeling good. I knew the course and felt confident I could finish strong. In the back of my mind I doubted that I could catch any of the leaders, but I had to put myself in the position to make the attempt.

I rode smooth and strong, even confident. I couldn’t believe that my back didn’t hurt (it almost always does in standard mountain bike racing), my Chameleon felt great. I started lapping people, trying to speak words of encouragement as I passed–mostly “vamos! vamos!”. But I never saw any other riders in Libre.

At the end of the race I started to wear down. I was not drinking or eating enough to balance out three hours of hard riding. I crossed the line a 3:30, in fifth place. Dan dropped out at some point in the race.

Odin and other Arizona riders came in a while later, showing definite signs of exhaustion. The sand had taken its toll on many a rider. Still, Odin finished a strong 8th place, one minute ahead of the next Libre rider.

Rolando used my laptop and “racemaster” program to keep track of the results. It worked flawlessly until he left and someone (accidentally?) zeroed all the times. So, they went to manual backup (paper on pencil) to recompute the results after the fact.

That night they held a fiesta for the awards, including two carbon cooked lambs on a spit. It was interesting and I enjoyed talking to my friends from Hermosillo.

On Sunday Hottie almost did a half-marathon, complete with its own confusion. In the end we were glad that she wasn’t able to run it. Instead we went to La Jolla to ride a lap. This is simultaneously the most fun and most brutal race course I’ve ever had the pleasure of suffering on. Four laps of this course is sheer torture, nothing else. There is nowhere to rest. But the bridges, steep climbs, armored trails and just general fun factor make it all worthwhile.

It was strange to ride it at a slow and mellow pace. It was a different trail.

Back to Tucson… and now I am able to feed my addiction to Mexican Quesadillas once again. Tasty, tasty. I’ll be averaging about 6-10 per day until we run out. As mi amigo Sergio says “there are not enough quesadillas in the world for me.” I am forever in debt to Santiago for filling me in on the location of his secret Quesadilla shop. It’s somewhere between Tucson and Hermosillo…..