It all started with a text...
More of a txt, actually. At 2:10am on saturday, after finishing five hours of packing, prepping, and pie-ing, I had finally laid my head down to sleep a handful of blissful hours when I receive a text from Eric A, my ride for the weekend. "Not going to SLO sorry".
Bam.
Devastated.
I quickly jumped out of bed and scanned the forum thread for other rides leaving on saturday...pretty slim pickin's since 95% of the team went up on friday afternoon...so I sent out a random "you're my only hope" text to someone who listed themselves for late friday departure, along with my typical "If you come back and pick me up I'll shower you in pie" text to most of the team already in Parkfield. I went to bed dejected, waiting for the decidedly less awesome morning. At roughly 4:10am I feel my bed vibrating, and, me being me, think "The bed is shaking. But I'm not happy. Therefore I'm cannot be having sex. Yet the bed is shaking. Therefore cellphone is probably going off. QED". I put on my best "I wasn't sleeping" voice and answered the call from the man who wold prove to be my saviour- Eric Deardorff. Fifteen minutes later, I was in the diesel Mercedes and on my way to Parkfield!
Things discussed while in the car: cars, diesel, singlespeeds, the stupidity of highway designers, veganism, wheels, why double butted spokes are stronger, the dairy paradox, and where one can get some really good meat substitute. Enlightening, to say the least.
We got into Parkfield at around seven, just in time to see the XC team roll out of their tents and onto the start line. Needless to say, they slayed. Once back from their umpteenth mile of ownage, the boys and girls geared up and went out to check out the Dual Slalom course. I'd heard stories about the steep slope and pristine berms, but only one of those turned out to be true- the berms were wrecked, and only got worse throughout the day. But I'm not one to complain...I'm just one to be vocally critical. After I took two runs, I headed up to check out the downhill course with Wilson, Speedy (Matt), and Danny. Needless to say, they lost me.
Things not hit on the DH course: the one tree that everyone else hit, the second G-out (although I did swear at it a lot), and the real line at the bottom of the steep last section- ended up threading through some trees.
Form here we headed back to eat, hydrate, and talk about the tree that we (they) hit. After taking off some armor and throwing on the kilt, it was time for DS practice. A word of warning to all those contemplating trying out DS...do it, ya' pansy! I hadn't signed up (being an indecisive pansy and not wanting my ego to be bruised by the numerous A-level riders slumming for the day), but still immensely enjoyed the ten or so runs I got in during practice. Once you rode the course more than five times, you began to remember how to rail the berms and blast the hardpack rollers. Well, actually, you remembered where to drift the now chunky "berms" (proving I'm not alone in braking in corners) and which lines were less likely to spit you onto your face. Runs were made, fun was had, and I somehow ended up pulling an inverted turndown into the right-side berm while riding riders-left, messing up my thumb and front brake lever. After unjamming these and doing a few more rounds, it was time for the real sport to begin...
And by real sport, I mean heckling. Qualifying proved to be rife with opportunities to remind others about their receding hairline, nighttime habits, lesser known vices, and questionable medication. The discovery of two stakes (henceforth referred to as the "Justice Sticks") led to a number of "the power of Christ compels ye" jokes and sexy stick dancing. Once racing actually started, the big guns were brought out: references to Smokey the Bear (Smokey hates you because you'reee onnn firrreeeee!!!!) and peoples supposed ancestry (You're three-quarters SCUD missile!) paired with the old bunny rabbit routine all helped instill an instinctual fear of my voice in our opponents. Our C/D boys ended up doing us proud, 1st to Speedy and 2nd to Ryan in Qualifying, though both got really excited during their race runs and went down. But they went down swinging, as always. An excellent performance. As for the ladies, Sarise, Jackie and Stacey all took the field by storm, though Sarise set it on fire and then doused it like a bad puppy. As far as I remember, Saris first, Jackie fourth, and Stacey got bored and headed up on Pablo's Vp-Free to shuttle with the "broski's" and "shred" the "ched-gnar" after totally ripping the DS course on it. Great jobs, ladies! Truly, our team's women are vastly superior to other team's women. Affirmative.
Post DS people returned to camp to begin setting up for dinner (thanks to Carmi/teampay for the pasta) and just pal around. But you could feel it in the air...The Authentic Parkfield Experience was about to occur. After an hour of talking to the random Santa Barbara dude and looking at pictures of me flashing the camera (the kilt worked very well in this regard), it was time for the pixie race, aka Parkfield Pixie Madness...I have no idea how many people showed up, but it felt like the whole camp was clustered around the track. People were riding in thongs, funny hats, there was even a guy in a kilt...and the speed was insane. You had to watch out if you stood in a corner, because the riders typically forgot that their steeds were incapable of doing anything other than riding fast in a straight line, and tended to smash into spectators to aid their steering. After a few laps, some jackasses (see also Scotts Valley "locs") stole a table from the EMT tent to make a massive triple jump...which Alex smashed
his face on. I hope you find your teeth, dude.
After all that, it was time to head back. I missed our camp twice, since I didn't remember the white honda blasting techno as belonging to our posse, but once I realized it was in our space, I headed in. It was like a rave without the funny methheads trying to dance and stab one another at the same time. Things were really blurry at this point, so in between Stacey owning with the poi and what looked like Jackie punching someone, I crawled into my assumed tent and slept.
The next morning saw the team getting up and preparing for ST a little more dazed than the morning before, but they achieved consciousness nonetheless. I missed Brendans race, but I heard he kicked ass, while Carmi whipped the field alongside Michael and Matt. Joy, Meg, and Jackie all heaped the pain on their opponents and hit the lines with speed and grace unseen in the other racers.
So at this point, all eyes turned to the DH, and it was time to head up and do some shuttling to acclimate with the course. Again with Wilson and Speedy, I headed up and dropped in...and felt better. It seemed a little rougher than the day before, but still manageable. I hit the "rock garden" for the first time, although I didn't hit the second g-out again, instead opting for the big jump that set you up for the next corner. On the steep descent, I took Speedy's line again right down the middle, and since the lower course was marked out at this point, I couldn't take my cop out line through the trees (which was actually very fast if you didn't catch your bars). Instead, I hit the embankment at mach chicken, manualed up it, and somehow got half a backflip in before I hit a tree. I got up stoked that I wasn't in pain, and finished the course feeling a little better about my chances of surviving.
Once back at camp to eat a PBnJ and put on a jersey, a team vote determined that I would race in my kilt. After some creative safety pinning, I had what amounted to really baggy kilt-shorts and a thirst for my enemies tears or victory, whichever came first. We all headed out to the riders meeting at the bottom of the DS course, at which they announced the hour delay, so we decided to hike up early to get good seats at the G-OUT (deserving of it's capital letters). Why the shuttle wasn't running is beyond me, but Wilson, Matt and I made it to the top without too much of a problem. Seating ourselves under the protective boughs of some random bush, we proceeded to watch in awe as the Pro's hit the g-out pedaling like madmen. While one guy took the bush line and another strayed off of his, almost off the trail, there were no big wipeouts...dangnabit.
Time to head up. The top of the course was packed with racers, probably around fifty just standing there. The race organizers were having a hard time being heard, along with placing people in the right categories -mens CAT 2's were missed and run at the end. Eventually, the men's SC contingent, all racing C's, were called up- Wilson, Jesse, Billy Lewis (racing B's?), Speedy, Ryan, and myself all hit the starting line in turn.
My race: At my fifteen second warning, I began to sing (The Beatles "All My Lovin"...what? it calms me down.), which I carried into my sprint and wipeout at the entrance to the first bit of singletrack. I think Campbell heard me cut off abruptly and swear...crash number one...from there it got flowy until the first jump, where I had typically hit the corner too hot, shut it down, and taken the line around the jump, but this time the line was taped over, so I had to hop off the bike and jump over it, remounting and losing a metric ton of time. Crash number two. Things were good the rest of the way- I hit the G-out first time just fine after carrying way too much speed into the corner before- pretty stoked on that. Coming up on the steep section, I remembered that I had to hit the right side line if I wanted to set up for the berm...well...you know how they were saying it was all loose on the right side? It wasn't. Braking bumps, ruts, and random holes just seemed to appear right before my eyes as I hit it, barely tapping my rear brake to control my speed...once in the clear, I saw that I was off-line by about four feet, corrected, pumped over the little shore, manualed up the embankment, and stalled. "Crash" number three. The crowd was deafening, but I hopped back on, pedaled my kilt off and made it over the finish line without any more problems. WHOOT WHOOT! Damn that felt good just to write.
Once done, I headed back to watch the others come down. The ladies were amazing, all took the lines without hopping off or falling- major props. Saris got first in Womens B's, and Speedy 1st and Ryan 2nd in Mens C's. You all kicked major ass out there, regardless of placement. Excellent on all fronts.
The ride back could be summed up in three words: burritos, Metallica, and utterly-bitchin'. Thanks to all that made this weekend possible, and especially to Eric Deardorff, without whom I wouldn't have made it at all, and Jesse Novotny, without whom I wouldn't have made it home. You're all amazing people, and I look forward to spending as much time as possible riding with and getting to know you all.
HONK!
(By the by, sorry if I messed up any names, placings, ect, either through omission or general ignorance. My memory can be fuzzier than a siamese cat in a dryer.)
