292 – The Illusion of Traction

Traction is a funny thing, on a mountain bike. When you think you have it, you might not, and when you think you don’t, you may have more than you expect. Traction is a skill, to a point. There are visual cues, and setup tips, and riding techniques that will all help. Intangibles like istinct and feel each play a big part. But when the rain’s coming down, sometimes you’re at the mercy of chance. All you can do is stay loose, let it slide where it wants to slide, and be ready to bail at any given moment.

Traction was the number one concern for every rider in this year’s rain-delayed MoMBA XC Classic. After postponing for two weeks for torrential rain, the MVMBA decided to roll the dice on October 19th, even though the forecast was gloomy. There wasn’t much of a choice, really. The weather will only get more sketchy from here on out, and one rescheduling had already shrunk the prospective turnout dramatically. The decision was made to hold the race regardless of the weather, and issue coupon codes to those who chose (reasonably) not to race.

I prepped the bike for my ninth dirt race of the season the day before, and spent most of the day refreshing the hourly forecast, hoping to see some reason for optimism. None came. Every source I could find gave the same story, predicting the sort of steady, soaking rain that typifies Ohio in the fall. Fortunately, I do have a small assortment of gear for such conditions, but that doesn’t mean I was looking forward to having to use it.

I got up early and got ready, opting for a light breakfast and a little coffee, and peeking out the window. To my surprise, the street outside was still dry. Maybe we’d get lucky after all! But a glance at the morning radar picture showed a huge, slow-moving wall of green approaching from the southwest. It was gonna be wet, no two ways about it. I got suited up, loaded the bike in the truck and skipped over to MoMBA to get registered. A scant few cars were there when I arrived, far from the capacity crowds we’ve enjoyed at most of the races this year. The sky was just starting to spit a few drops as I fixed my number to my bike, and wandered around, waiting for my wave to start.

Just as the first class rolled up to the start line, the rain began in earnest. The temperature seemed to drop as well, and I found myself wondering if I had dressed warmly enough for two laps in misery. At the last moment, I decided to dash home and add a layer of UnderArmour, and throw on my new Columbia top. The next few hours would show that it was probably the best decision I could make, short of staying in bed!

After running home and back, I was feeling less nervous about the race. I’d be warm enough, and all I had to do was go out and try to stay upright. Several riders had given up and left, once the rain started. There were only three riders who stuck around in my class, so all I had to do was survive, and I’d be on the podium. I didn’t harbor any delusions about that being an easy task, but at least the pressure to try and go fast in horrendous conditions was somewhat relieved.

The few of us dumb hardcore enough to stick around and race huddled under the tents at the start line, waiting for our wave to be called and heckling the riders starting ahead of us. I got a particular kick out of the few guys who were out “warming up” before their race, as if any amount of riding would be enough to really get warm. I figured the loop through the field at the start would be plenty of warm-up for me.

Soon it was time for my class to start, and the three of us stayed huddled under the tent until the 30 second call, then scrambled onto our bikes and rolled up to the line. Dan counted down to the start and we were off, splashing through the grass field and throwing up rooster tails of water behind us. I stayed with the other two riders until the entrance to Twisted, but not so close that I would get sprayed from their back tire.

We turned onto the single track, and all I could do was grin. The trail was still hard-packed, but already holding a substantial amount of water. With new tires and no desire to get a mouthful of leaves and mud in the first mile, I let the other two riders slip away while I got a feel for the conditions. Surprisingly, overall traction was adequate, but I had to pay a lot more attention than normal to line selection, as the best tires in the world won’t do you much good on wet roots and tree trunks. Mental acuity would be as important in this race as fitness and bike handling.

I got my mud legs under me after Twisted, and set a decent pace (given the conditions) through ZigZag. The tight and bumpy nature of the trail suited me and my bike just fine, and with the exception of the swoopy, off-camber section at the far end of the loop, there wasn’t much time to be gained from trying to push it up anyway. I caught sight of one of the other riders in my class again, and presumed that he had either crashed, or was having trouble coping with the elements. He had been shivering before the race even started.

I chased him through the rest of ZigZag and through Voodoo, figuring that I’d be patient and let him push into a mistake, allowing me to pass. That opportunity came at the exact wrong time however, as he tipped over just after we started Hawk’s Lair, and I nearly ran over his back tire. I had to dismount as well, and we slipped and jogged our way through the first technical feature. Normally I would have pressed my advantage to get ahead of him, but I had some trouble getting clipped back into my pedals, and then he stretched away from me on the first climb in Hawk’s.

Hawk’s Lair was the only trail I was really dreading today. On a good day, in dry, grippy conditions, I only clear the whole thing about half the time. I’ve figured out a few tricks this year to doing it right, but most of them involve having enough speed to attack obstacles. For obvious reasons, extra speed wasn’t on the menu today, so I wasn’t sure how I was going to do any of it, especially after getting balked right at the beginning. As we approached the rocky sections at The Ridges and Moonscape, I found myself unclipping preemptively, which almost guarantees that I won’t clear the section. But it also means I won’t be sprawling over the rocks halfway through. There aren’t many great places to crash, but Hawk’s in the rain is a particularly bad one.

I survived Hawk’s, but the price of my caution was that I had lost touch with the rider in front of me. My left pedal was giving me some trouble clipping back in, adding to my problems and further slowing my pace. Even so, I figured if I had been going fast enough to catch up to the guy once, maybe it would happen again. And anyway, I wasn’t sure I could go much faster than I was going already.

On the bright side, my equipment was working as advertised, even under such abuse. My gear was keeping me dry and warm enough, the bike was handling fine, my new-ish drivetrain was clicking along flawlessly, and my tires were holding on, even though this was far beyond what they were designed to do. My front derailleur was jamming up a little, causing some chain rub, but it wasn’t enough to really be concerned about.

For the rest of the first lap, I just did what I could. The only place I could put in 100% effort was going uphill, and then only if it was a smooth-ish bit of trail. I was averaging a paltry 8 mph, which is about 3 mph slower than my normal race pace on this course. I couldn’t even make up time going down hill without risking catastrophe. Of course, going slower robs you of momentum going up hill as well, which makes every climb harder than it should be.

At last, I was headed up the switchbacks that bring you out of Creekside, and my first lap was over. I was surprised, as I got out of the woods, just how soft the ground had gotten in the last hour, as the rain continued to fall. Pedaling through the grass up to the start/finish was like riding on a damp sponge, and I got more winded slogging through the field than I had been on the climb a moment earlier.

I tried to put down some electrolytes from my bottle while I pedaled through the field back to Twisted for my second lap, but I was working too hard to get a drink. I kept looking down at my back tire, trying to see if it was going flat, but it was just that the ground was that soft. I was happy to get back into the woods, and onto relatively firmer ground.

The trail had worsened noticeably since my last trip through. Although there were fewer than 30 riders total in the race, the soaking rain had loosened the mud, and I found myself getting sideways more and more. By this point, I was as comfortable as I was going to be, and I just tried to remind myself to pick good lines, square off corners, and stay loose.

The worst thing you can do when the bike starts to slide is try to resist it, to fight it into going where you want, instead of where it wants. The bike is sliding because it ran out of traction, so to try and force it to go back to where it lost traction in the first place only makes you lose more. It’s best to just try and control the slide and let it continue until it grips, then correct your course and press on. This sounds simple and straightforward now, as I’m describing it from the warmth and comfort of my recliner, but executing the concept is far more complex. It’s a fast-moving ballet of instinctual response, body english, and no small amount of guesswork. And on a day like this, it’s happening with every corner, every pedal stroke, every brush of the brake lever.

As with any dance, you learn to trust your partner over time. Every slip that doesn’t end in disaster bolsters your confidence. At least until you slide just past that edge, and find yourself at the precipice of a crash, or on the ground. But while it’s working, while you’re waltzing on the razor’s edge, it creates the illusion of traction where there is none. The tires are in a near constant state of spin and slip, never quite tracking where you told them, but you’ve relaxed enough that you don’t care.

This is where I found myself in the second half of my race. I wasn’t concerned with pushing the pace any more. I had long since lost touch with the rider ahead of me, but I was confident that I could go on riding, and was comfortable doing it, thanks to my last-minute gear additions. The bike, on the other hand, was starting to complain of abuse, as the rear brake pads were gone, the chain was soaked with muddy water, and the front derailleur could barely move, with all the mud packed into it.

None of that bothered me. My placement in the race was assured, and I only had to endure the rest of a lap to collect a podium. Enduring misery is something I’ve gained a lot of experience in this year, and all of that work made this ride seem almost like no big deal. I splashed through Twisted, ZigZag and Voodoo, rolling easier and more relaxed than my first lap, since the pressure was off.

Worsening mechanical issues aside, I was comfortable enough to ride more assertively. I got a good run into the opening section of Hawk’s Lair and cleared it, which is an accomplishment for me on a warm, dry day. I picked my way to the top of the climb without issue, bounced and slipped my way through the rock gardens and back out to Lower Stealth, where I was hit with the realization that I was almost done! I only had a few more miles of relatively easy trail to go, and then the suffer fest would be over!

My rear brake was dragging hard now, and I stopped a couple times to see if I could free it, but to no avail. The combination of a dragging brake and pedaling through mud was wearing me out a little, but I had plenty of juice left to take me to the finish.

As challenging as the conditions had become, I had started to ride them reflexively. Now that I had become used to the job at hand, I started reflecting on my season in the dirt. From hill repeats in the bitter cold of late February, to reaching transcendence in Brown County in March, to sprints and enduros in August, to chugging through the rain and mud in my final race, it’s been an adventure all year long.

I’ve learned to be a better rider, but more than that, I’ve learned about myself. I’ve learned that the strength of my determination sometimes exceeds the strength of my body, and that the former can carry the latter beyond its normal limits. I’ve learned that mental preparation is at least as important as physical, and that skimping on either can have serious consequences on a race, no matter the length. I’ve learned to get everything I can get out of every ride and every race. Whether that’s just surviving to the finish, coming in seconds before the cutoff, or raging through a lap at full steam, snapping at the heels of a podium finish, what matters is that I gave everything I had, and performed to the best of my ability.

Given the intensity of the season, the way it ended was anticlimactic. I spun up the switchbacks at the end of Creekside and squished through the mud and grass back to the finish line, to the cheers of the small, shivering crowd. After exchanging mud-soaked riding gear for dry clothes, the other riders and I hoisted celebratory beers and munched on hot dogs and chili while we waited for the other classes to finish. The rain had let up at last, and we swapped stories from the race, laughed at our own silliness for racing in the first place, and at our good fortune in finishing without incident.

In the final tally, I had finished my two laps in 2:07, which isn’t hateful on a day like this, but was 14 minutes off the winner. My buddy Kent, demonstrating that mud is not an excuse for a slow ride, banged out three laps in 2:46, which is nonsensically fast. He stood on the top step in the Expert class.

For me, finishing meant that I stood on the podium in a mountain bike race for the first time all season. Given what it took to get there, it felt more earned than automatic. As someone pointed out to me, I beat everybody who chose not to race in such conditions, and with a crowd as hearty as mountain bikers tend to be, that isn’t nothing. As the race season gives way to the off-season, I’ll be putting in the work to make sure that next year, this isn’t the only way I’ll step on the box.