Trusty Switchblade

Jen didn't have a Cross bike to race the season so Doug Sproston took it upon himself to help piece on together for her. A special thanks goes out to some other dudes who kicked in and made it possible too:

Ray Cloutier of Labombard Machine for kincking in the fork

Jerry Garbellano for the frame

Jerry Wardlow for everything else.

Couldn't have done it without their help.

Hey folks! Dougie Don't here, and after reflecting for a couple days I think I'm ready to talk about it. Honestly, I was ambivalent at the prospect of doing the race. I'm not especially fond of the sales angle as I see the bike as a tool for cutting the bullshit out of your life. Sometimes you need a scalpel, sometimes you need a shovel. But it's personal and it needs no gloss or rasterization. So I agreed to do it because my teammates are solid fuckin dudes and I would ride myself sick for them, just as they would do (and did do) for me. Up until this race, the longest ride I had done was in high school---I rode from Eugene to Portland on a shitty K-mart mtb with a flat rear tire, high on acid.

Anyways, my race started poorly, as I crashed out in the first 25 feet. The start line was the top of a steep 10% pitch in some really deep (like a half a foot!) 3/8" pea gravel. I tried to rail down at speed, but I highsided to the left and went over hard on the driveside. Ouch. Tore my bibs and a big chunk out of my palm. I didn't know it at the time but I bent my rear mech hanger. This would soon come back to haunt me. We soon regrouped and hit some smooth pave. We were all fresh and feeling like brand new ponies so we cranked it up to maybe 25. Being careful not to crush our legs early, but something to get the jitters out. A couple rotations in and I'm just settling in after a pull and POOOF! a flat. Not just a flat but a half-inch gash in my sidewall. I must have run over a goddamn bowie knife! Fuck. On the brand new gatorskin I bought to avoid this! Ok, new tire and we roll on right? Nope, because even though we brought something like six extra tires to the race, in the pre-race staging jitters those tires escaped us. So we are now 5 miles into the race and teams are beginning to pass us. We throw in a tire boot and pray it'll hold. At pressure the boot pokes out of the tire about a quarter inch like a big, angry zit. The rapha dudes were taking pictures of it but I bet the continental dudes get that squashed. Lulz. So this is how the day starts, and I'm glad. Two of my three worst fears for the race have happened, I have crashed and had a mechanical difficulty requiring some shonky shadetree fixing. Perfect. Unfortunately, my third and greatest fear would soon show.

The first rated climb was about 2 miles of an average 7% grade on gravel. Not just gravel but crushed river rock gravel. River rock is round on one or more sides as it was worn smooth by the river over a millennia. It does not pack down like quarry stone. It’s about a quarter the price as quarry rock, so a it’s often used for roads in remote areas with little traffic. As the world's fattest grimpeur this would definitely be a make or break climb for me. 190lbs don't go uphill easy as 160. It's scientistical fact. Unfortunately, my crash bent my derailer hanger. This left me without my bail-out gear. I didn’t have a tool and had sent my teammates up the road. I would try to make the climb in a 39-23. I managed for awhile but I quickly popped as the grade kicked up. I stopped for a sec and fiddled with my limits and cable tension. Hopped back on and make it another 100 yards before my cable pulls out of the derailer completely. Out in the already hot sun I got my first feelings of doubt. Maybe I didn’t have the fitness to do this. Maybe I had the fitness but not the mental toughness. Maybe I angered the gods of cycling by giving excellent repair service to triathletes without snickering at them. Maybe bicycles are stupid and my true calling is amateur bowling.

A lot went though my head as I trudged up the hill, hoping some kind soul would toss me a multi-tool. My reprieve came from the women of Upper Echelon Fitness. They came pounding up the hill, a flying dagger of strong, sweaty womanhood.  My savior (whose name escaped me) loaned me a tool and quickly moved on to catch her teammates---like a she-wolf rejoining her pack. It was magical and I was renewed.

That climb was my lowest point. Luckily my teammates had stopped for me at the top. My legs were jelly at the top of that climb and I made comment to Aaron about it. He said something simple and offhand like “well you look strong” and I felt better. I realized then---everybody was hurting, it wasn’t just me. I could carry on.

At times I was delirious, but I tried to keep a few things in the front of my mind: keep drinking water, keep eating food, and don’t touch the brakes! It wasn’t much later that Aaron got stung by bees and soon suffered very badly for it. His heartrate was 140 on the flats and 170+ on any grades. We did our best to shelter him from the wind and give him little pushes when we could. His jersey and helmet straps were soon white with his salts and electrolytes. His body was in distress and he was obviously in pain. His eyes were red, bloodshot slits and his voice was hoarse. He carried on. That was the highpoint for me. If he could carry on for us, we could do our best to protect him and get him to the final checkpoint. We decided we would go across the finish line as a team and we rallied the last mile in good spirits. We all had that pool and a cold beer on our minds for many miles, and our reward was just as good as we imagined it.

I am of course very drunk as I write this, both on misty-eyed reflection and real beer. I look forward to next year and wish all of the team could experience that day as we six did. I felt we had a strong team and would love for the same crew to rep the ‘Blade next year. But I also know I will gladly give my spot to someone stronger, because that’s what a teammate does. SWITCHBLADE UBER ALLES! -d