Fort French Cove – Sailing home fulla LOOT

Fort French Cove – Sailing home fulla LOOT.

T’was a clear n’ crisp morn when the team car set sail from the bowls of Hali, embarking on a crusade to the Francophone North. Crew members included Ya Boi Marty, The Young Gun, GuestriderZ and the author.

A 6:30 departure combined with a 10:00 cut off for unregistered riders meant that the voiture de l’equipe had to run hard through the Wentworth Valley—the first race of the day was against the clock. We got there at 10:30, as a coffee and gas stop was mandatory, and a frisky Young Gun pranced over to the registration table to try his luck. Hilariously, they told him “maybe” and that they’d bring him a plate to the line—if they decided they could make room for some World Cup heavyweighter talent.

With the rest of the crew pre-registered, the earth began to turn smoothly again. I arrived last to the line as Sheila was giving her pre-race warnings against riding helmetless in the parking lot after the race, and other tidbits. I threw my second Camelbak towards the feedzone and snuck up to the front through the throngs of kids and masters riders.

Taking it off the line was a young son on a dirt jump bike, who sprinted like he was Brian Lopes bustin’ off the gate. Eventually, the lack of a big ring caught up with the duder, and the pain train of CSD cruised on by. I made sure to give the jean-adorned kid major props. Lespy and I hit the first climb together, and made sure to intimidate any and all challengers with a duet—Foreigner’s Hot Blooded. Mwahaaa! We “passed the mic” back and forth while an incredulous Acadian contingent cocked their heads in shock and awe.

Slicing through the open hardwood over bone dry hardpack, we burst out on an ATV trail and passed some course marshals. Unbeknown to us, some ATVers had chewed off a piece of course tape, hoping that a crew of young city folk would happen upon their hunting camp complete with pretty mouths. Not to be fooled, CSD realized their mistake after a few minutes… Much cursing and skidding ensued, and we hauled the front of the pack around to retrace our steps. The tape was by now back up, and we ripped into the singletrack like relocated hyenas, uncaged and fresh off tranquilizers.

Martin Peltier made the turn initially, and was now separated from us by probably 20 riders. TYG and I tore into the trail, dropping all behind us in a blitzkrieg of mini-skid turns and cheater lines. One of the highlights of the day was how we could swing our rear semi-slicks around like rudders on the hardpack, shaving seconds from every corner.

We caught Martaan on the third 45m lap (he was killing it, thinking that more riders were ahead) and promptly shut down our all-out psychopathically anti-social pace in favor of a more relaxed “we only go hard where it’s fun” strategy. He hammered the climbs while we exchanged looks of concern, and we took turns gapping him in the light speed singletrack. This is total Hard Wood Hills type stuff we’re talking about.

With 1.5h to go, we were dicing up the first section of single, when Ya Boi Marty came a hootin’ and hollerin’ through the canopy. We jubilantly screamed back through the trees, and CSD was soon reunited in attack formation. The four of us stayed together until the longest, fastest section of singletrack, where our Halifax-honed, root-annihilating pace cast Martaan from the caboose of the pain train. He hit the ground running, and stayed ahead of the hord for 4th, but the race had gone up the trail.

Early in the race, when TYG was killin’ it like Blackwater on Sunnis, I coyly suggested how great it’d be if we all rolled it together like something out of a fairy tale. He scoffed, and filed the idea away for later use. . . . Pounding through the last 70 minutes, I started to feel better and better, and in one section detached the rest of the train from my rear Jet S. Lespy wasn’t impressed, and exclaimed: “what the fuck!? We just dropped Marty!” upon his reunion with the front. He wasn’t feeling so hot himself though, and began to fade dramatically as the minutes counted down. Martin found this just wonderful, and picked and poked at TYG’s fragmented armor—such a race moment of weakness in our junior destroyer was not to be wasted in Martin Land. TYG got crankier and crankier with this onslaught of insults to injury.

With Martin and I now riding chill in order to preserve the integrity of the pain train, Lespy suggested we all ride in together. I smirked, and said sure. If Martaan was to catch us again the contract would be void, but barring that, we decided we’d roll in together in a stunning display of bromance, and then split the prize money. I took the “win”; Marty second; TYG third.

GuestriderZ had a KILLER race—her second event ever—and rolled in third in sole female! No doubt 5 laps of the best speed-tech course in the ATL will upgrade her skills to another level.

Once rolling in the Team Car, we promptly got lost in the ‘Chi, while looking for the “Irish Pub”. We somehow ended up at a skatepark on the outskirts and upon pulling in to turn around, were swarmed by a few kids on DJ bikes who offered to trade bikes for ours. After much thought, we declined. One of them was accompanied by their father who sort of helped us find the pub: “turn around” was quite helpful. I think there was some language barrier in effect.

We eventually found it, and Lespy kicked the party off by ordering soup. “What soup do you have?” “Soup of the day is cream of leek and yam. It’s blended.” “Blended? Ahhhh, TOTALLY!” “Yeah, ummm . . . I’ll get that.” The rest of the table laughed, but coming from someone who was fresh out of a post-race comatose-in-lawn-chair state, we understood.

The crew busted out the generous prize money, and was generous with the tip to top up our karma to carry us safely through a moose-ridden highway 11 back to civilization. Marty drove and teased TYG, while GRZ and yours truly slept and then authored this piece.

Overall, it was another day well lived by some of CSD’s heaviest weight mercenaries. Anyone who hasn’t experienced the glory of Miramichi’s Fort French Cove trails should make the trip. There’s about 15km of some of, if not the best singletrack in the Maritimes. It’s the only “speed-technical” stuff I’ve ridden on an Atlantic race course; probably our sole taste of real, sustained hardpack. Major props to Incline Sports and all who made it happen—you guys rock.

‘Till next time,

Ya Crew.

(Photos stolen from the event's facebook group.)

The Wentworth Spokebender

It's been a damn long while since the last update from ya crew, but we've been out getting all our planets and mitochondria aligned for this Sunday--the Wentworth show-down.

With TYG and Gmoney fresh back from 'Games, The Ol' Man, Randall, Marty, Da Burge, D-Ral, Robertson and other choice players ensured the stacking of the start line. TYG, myself and Da Burge rolled up fashionably tardy, as per usual, and cast a steely-eyed Natural Born Killer-type survey over the field as we slid into the front row. (Yes, we love ourselves!)

Lespy and Gmoney, with all their unbridled confidence and hematocrit of youth, began yelling from one end of the front row to the other about how they were going to hammer off and then pinch the field as they cut in towards the center to slap each other's bums. This was not to be tolerated by the elder statesmen. I assumed a representative role for Old Man Strength and sliced through their play time to take the hole-shot. Whoohooo! I won the start!

Gmoney quickly exacted some revenge, however, as he shot past me at the top of the steep opening grade and began what would become a kamikaze attack on the 1500m climb. . . . Midway through the first rock garden, a season on the road caught up with him as he spun out and came to a stop, with more dabs going down than a bingo hall. That marked the termination of his time sur l'avant, as TYG took the reins for The Youth, with another rope virtually tied to my headtube.

On the top section, before the first descent, TYG and I thought we were running free of the frothing field behind us, but a quick scan back through the poplars reveled a rabid Burge machine-gunning over the root bed. I screamed back words of encouragement, but he didn't get on the train in time to flow the upcoming descent--a manicured section of course more killer than David Berkowitz.

I tried to recover, sitting on TYG's wheel as we slid our semi-slicks around the tight brush like rudders. After 5 glorious minutes of mini-skid pump-track stoke time we burst out onto the maple sugar road and then began the technical climb to the field. With TYG in 6th gear cruise control I clung to his wheel by my fingernails, managing to stay on him to the top of the long, buff doubletrack climb that followed the field. We tore into the descent like starved arctic wolves and soaked up the stoke provided by the days of raking done by Conor and his crew. No where else but Wentworth will you rip a swoopy 50km/h hard-pack descent; other than the foot-wide swath of manicured dirt aligned with our plates, the rest of the course was a blue and green smudge in peripheral vision.

After the next climb we worked our way to the bottom, tires skimming rocks and stanctions heating up like AK-47 hammers. With a perfect feed from Jeff Simms' GF, we embarked on the second trek up the brutal cart road, number plates pointed at the sky. Our gap increased steadily over the next lap, as Da Burge began to cramp in his calf.

Hitting the long, mid-lap doubletrack climb for the second time, I led TYG as we approached the top. This provided my lactate-drenched legs to roll their own pace, hopefully ready for his inevitable surge over the top. Well, this lap there was no surge, rather the whole grid got scorched by an electrical storm of first-testament proportions. I dug deep and bent the shovel on a rock bottom, but couldn't keep his rear Crossmax in sight, as it was surely being propelled by his big ring.

With Lespy stamping his family seal on the point series up ahead, I dug in to hold onto second place. My mantra became "feel the fear!" as I made repeated shoulder checks and hammered harder into the now silent hardwood--lest an Old Man or a rejuvenated Burge blow past me on a second wind. Other than a broken spoke as I pounded through a compression on the first descent, things were on "red-line cruise-control".

Rolling comfortably through the final descent to the finish, I had flash-backs to the Spokebender of 2000, when I first moved to elite to battle The Old Man. He got me in the sprint, but I was stoked out of my helmet vents to be there with him. TYG's summer of learning at the top of the sport, only to come home after the Canada Cups/World Cups/Canada Games and handidly stick it to us all, makes the memory come full circle with the present. Brace yourselves, for it is truly a new era!

Da Burge held onto 3rd, taking out Simms (4th) and The Ol' Man (5th). Marty rolled in 6th, followed by Gmoney in 7th. Randall had a KILLER ride, posting up to the staging area in 8th, ahead of Ed, D-Ral, and Robertson.

Our B-blaster Enid was taken out due to a pinched nerve in her back that made taking the start unbearable. Fans shed a few tears; men in cat. B relaxed and unstuffed their chamois. Perhaps we'll see some dual Graller power in action at Fort French Cove on the 20th.

CSD guest rider, Zuzka, celebrated her 31-days-on-a-mountain bike anniversary by throwing herself into the B race. She held it down for two laps--crash free (!)--and professes to have improved by at least 250% as a rider. The Editor is just as stoked :)

Repeatedly, the Hub Cycle crew shows the world how to put on killer, well run events. The course was just about perfect, shit ran on time, results were timely, commissares were great people and assets to the scene; even their prizes were awesome and appreciated. There was nostalgic talk about how races drew 200+ in the hay-days of "mountain bike on the roof of every 90s SUV", but with events like this the numbers could very well return.

I like to consider the point of racing not simply to satisfy some primal urge for chase or competition, but also to get closer to the point of true human potential under relatively harmless circumstances. Stories of a mother lifting the back of a car off her child, or someone benching a 700lb boulder off their chest after a landslide abound, yet most mope around the daily grind well within the narrow confines of comfortable exertion. Racing doesn't simply let you satisfy some innate urge to chase, selected by evolution to ensure bison or zebras make it back to the clan; it distracts and motivates you to the point where suddenly your window of exertion extends into that forbidden territory of the true bodily red-line. That, loyal readers (haha), is what physical fulfillment is all about--truly drawing from a psychosomatic well of performance that only approaches its real depth during exceptional circumstances. What happens when you drill that deep? Cramps, crashes, tendonitis, heat-stroke, the tearing of connective tissue, the shredding of bronchi and also a heightened sense of self-awareness that only exposing one's all, both to the mind's eye and to those of spectators and other racers alike, can provide.

Thanks, all, for a thoroughly well-lived and real day!