Dearly Beloved……
Wanna know what makes me feel old? My tenth year lining up at BWR? The minor injuries constantly needing maintenance? The eternal struggle with work life balance? No, it’s my teeth falling out.
One of my teeth fell out four days before game day. OK, not exactly a tooth, worse than that actually, it was an implant from 2013. Failed. Gone.
Flashback to 2012, before I met Nick, a particularly risk tolerant year of my life. I ignored a serious toothache and jetted to Ibiza. After a raucous night out I rode an elevator at the Grand Hotel Ibiza with a group of four people, three with lanyard badges, clearly “handling” the talent, a sweaty shirtless man in extremely low waisted leather pants with an immaculate goatee and long black hair almost to his waist. My memory has since morphed him into Steve Aoki, but he wasn’t. I stared him up and down like a piece of meat and deadass looked him in the eyes and said flatly “You’ve had your appendix out” and walked out of the elevator. Oh the things you do to numb the pain when you’re “young” (I was 37. Facepalm) That was the last time I’d have 28 of my own teeth.
So anyway, tooth went horribly bad, multiple surgeries, implant that had a 99% chance of accompanying me to the grave failed 13 years later. Plink. Out it flies, cheezus-and-crackers that’s a giant screw, mouthful of blood. I call the office the next morning. They get me in, make me anesthesia-ready, and tell me to take it easy until Monday. Uh… how about I go gnash my remaining teeth on gravel for nine hours instead? Surgeon takes a look: “Yup, that’s a hole. Come back in three months.” Could’ve been a phone call, not a $150 five-minute visit, but whatever.
Guess my 27 teeth and I will be ok after all, just need to figure out how to keep Cheetos out of this mouth crater. Cheetos give me a rebellious thrill because my 1970s mom raised me on brown rice, carob, and lean chicken. She calls them “orange poison.” She and RFK Jr. aren’t wrong. But I’m a grown-ass adult and I’ll eat Cheetos if I want.
I rode from home the 7-ish flat and downhill miles to the start, no problem, good weather. This is fine. Everything is fine. We lined up in the back, Andy got a call up for finishing every BW CA. I yell THATS HIM to anyone near who will listen, or won’t listen. I proceed to chat with strangers, offering unsolicited advice. Casey-splaining my face off.
We roll out ten minutes behind the pros. Still fast AF. Yee actually laughed out loud watching me navigate cones. Hit the first dirt and there’s already a conga line on foot. I knew there’d be hike-a-bike nonsense farther up, but not this early. Stress level: rising. This year’s time cut was harsher— requiring a 12 mph average to the end of Mule trail, up from the usual 10–10.5. Tik-tok, tik-tok, I’m walking stuff I could ride with my eyes closed. I start hiking off-trail, trampling some grass when someone yells, “Hey, just because you’re a local, you think you can do that?”
It’s Bryan and Chi, doing the Wafer together. We laugh, selfie, walk. Chi notices I’m eating mochi, not my usual rice cakes. I explain: rice grains in tooth holes = bad. Answering questions no one asked. There’s a parallel trail there—maybe next year make it a choose-your-own-adventure with both trails to ease congestion? More unsolicited advice.
Top of Lusardi—finally. Fast, fun, drama-free. Except for some aggro guy yelling to pass and skidding every corner like he’s trying out for Tokyo Drift. At Aid 1, Mr. Brightman is waiting. We push the pace a little though the pavement, dropping Toyko Drift man. We get to see a screaming and cheering actual Belgian, our dear friend Djohara. She chases us on foot for a bit on our way to the Lake Dr. singletrack. I’ve pre-ridden it recently so I’m vibing, still dispensing advice to strangers and embarrassing Andy. “YOUR SADDLE IS TOO LOW,” I yell.
We cross paths with Victor Sheldon—en route to Wafer victory—and roll into Aid 2. Heather O’Brien, Bart Salatka, and crew crushing it. Jealous. Someday I’ll just aid-station it. Seems kinda fun, and I have a lot of costumes I could bring. Got through Hodges and Mule with no drama. We hit the Wafter turn off time cut with just ten minutes to spare. Tik-tock-Tick-tock.
We start up Highland Valley and witness a few unfortunate Wafer souls heading back who mistakenly climbed halfway up. Ooooof. What a wrong turn! We ride the green tree tunnel lined pristine pavement under a giant hawk on a power line, looking disdainfully down at us. “We’re just NPCs in his world,” Andy says. Moments later a moto with leaders Beers, Stetina and Vermulen flying down the other way. Am I a non playable character in their game? Or maybe I’m their game on easy mode, or would it be hard mode?… ‘cause this is really freaking hard for me.
Heading into Ramona, not seeing as many riders going the opposite direction as previous years, kinda weird, it was cold, also kinda weird, but cold is actually welcome at this event. Arriving at the aid station a white board reading “TIME CUT 1PM” greeted us. Tick tock tick tock. What the F! I hadn’t seen anything in writing about that, and glad I hadn’t because I would have been stressing about it all the way up HVR. Before I started to throw a fit, Andy points out it’s only 12:45, but still, I almost threw a fit just because. “Cheetos?” Andy offers to try to chill me out. No, not yet, it is not Cheeto time.
The Pamo out and back was gorgeous, saw Tiffany Prata going the other way up Pamo and she was looking great, stoked for her. The single track was lovely, if lonely, the cute little flowers in deep green grass keeping us few stragglers company. Wait, why am I coughing? Oh, cause it’s so freaking green I’m actually allergic to this trail. Rad. We counted riders the other direction noting at least 15 behind us, many definitely blowing past the time cut. Why do we care if there are people behind? I don’t know. I think it’s the sinking feeling that one day I’ll be too old to do this. Every rider behind me is keeping the grim reaper at bay. Tick Tock. Tick Tock. The REAL time cut’s coming for us all. Damn, that was dark, but unless you’re new here, you’re not surprised.
We hit the Pamo pavement climb, relieved it wasn’t 105 degrees, and the conversation takes a weird turn. Andy brought up pro Izzy King and how badass she was for riding so well while pregnant. I said I was kind of freaked out imagining a 24-week baby doing a gravel race—because I’ve personally met those babies, and let me tell you, they can’t hold a line, can’t lift a front wheel over a rock for shit. Their handling is atrocious and they never take a pull. Total non-team players. So, once again, answering questions nobody asked, Andy got an unsolicited lecture on placental physiology and how incredible that organ is. I hypothesized that maybe when mom’s a little hypoxic on a climb, the placenta just steps up and keeps the baby chill. Brightman’s eyes glazed over, but hey—it took our minds off the awful pavement.
The next part was predictable pain, awful headwinds out of Ramona. I yell to Andy to pull off to the left when he wants a break because the winds are so strong I know I’ll fry myself trying to pass him, he nods and after a few min pulls to the left, just as a false flat downhill is starting. Awwww, he’s letting me pull on the downhill. We hit the rollers. “How you feeling?” “Fine. I only feel like I’m gonna puke a little.” I sing, “Chicken. Banana. Chicken. Banana. Chicken Banana Banana Banana.” Just a TikTok sound. Don’t mind me. Still not on TikTok.
We WHEEEE down HVR, home pavement descent, picking up scattered riders as we go. I look for my pig but don’t see him. It’s ok, I don’t need pig magic to finish this year. This is fine. Everything fine. Except I’m going to throw up, or pee, or throw up pee. We arrive almost to the next section of single track and I plan to stop halfway along the trail at a known discreet spot, but the thought of hitting a rock right now might make something explode. So I pull over on the dirt before the trail starts and a spot I thought would work…. Aaaaaand I’m mooning the riders on the single track. I didn’t realize the road and trail were that close. Apologies for the eyeful of old-ass old ass. Good news I no longer want to puke.
Now suddenly Cheetos have become imperative. Mission critical. Life or death save me Sweet Chester Cheetah. I’m over sugar. End of HVR trail aid station. No Cheetos. Only salt and vinegar chips. I have a few. Andy begrudgingly eats some griping “Brits are stupid. I hate vinegar.”
We got to through Hodges to the next aid, Andy skips it, I stop and scream “CHEETOS! THEY HAVE CHEETOS. CHEEEETOS.” Fourth wind unlocked, I gleefully lead through lake drive dirt— top tube bag Cheeto after every bump. “Bro where you going?” NEW LINE. NEW LINE. “Oh ok, guess that was good” another cheeto.
We get to the part where normally we take a service road rather than the more technical sector. I knew the tech was on the route, but Andy had seen a previous version and was expecting the easy way. He gets super super cranky, which I gotta admit I loved cause I’m usually the complainer. Here Bro, have a Cheeto.
Next up: the switchbacks. My nemesis. But I do okay. The SDRP crew had the trail in great shape, so that helped. I Pavlov myself with a Cheeto at every successful corner. Next a text from Nick—call him when we hit the final climb. I’m stoked, but realize I have to plan my camera face….and by face I mean my not walking and not crashing face.
Down Scorpion Ridge, kind of a lot for a gravel bike—no crash, thank Chester. We choose the hike-a-bike instead of creek crossing. I don’t want wet feet or a new bottom bracket. Plus, I think I’m actually faster walking. I sneakily walk the tip tops of the second and third to last pitches, saving my stale old-ass ass for the last one.
Then comes the pitch. The terrible, slippery one that I sometimes don’t make it up on a good day. I hear Nick’s drone, Robyn Blackfelner is there, screaming and jumping cheering us on, dressed as a shark. Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she be?
Between hearing Nick’s drone and Robyn’s cheering, we both make it up that last pitch and to the best part of my day. I got mauled by two large dogs. Nick, Ned and Brandon saw my map dot 15 miles out as the crow flies and figured I’d be there soon, not realizing that was HVR on the way OUT. So they waited for me for four-and-a-half hours!! Awwwwww.
We cruised to the finish, greeted by a group of cheering Dirty Mousketeers, so appreciated. MMX was right there for the first hug. Randal promptly whisked me over for a podium pic. I’m 3rd (out of three) in the 50+ “Be Old. Show Up. Don’t Die” division. Really cool and thoughtful that they waited for me. Then an excellent cold glass of chocolate milk from Andy’s wife Kathy. Amazing
Am I old? Do I need calcium? Am I an NPC? Is Tik-Tok the downfall of civilization? Is riding with friends the BEST? Does this keep me young? Is it slowly killing me? Are Cheetos poison?
Yes.
So when you call up that dentist in Beverly Hills you know the one, doctor everything will be all right. Instead of asking him how much of your time is left. Ask him how many of your teeth baby.
Thank you MMX, Phil, Shelby, Randall for all your hard work. Also thank to all the volunteers out on course the entire day. You make this possible!
Source Endurance coaching – Thank you for keeping this old-ass rolling
Tires via https://puregravel.com/ 38mm Doublecross
Waffle Bike: Open Upper with SRAM 1X 40×10-52
Next:
NoFcks Given Gravel 