Rasputitsa 2016: Part II

The first 13.5 miles unfolded on dirt ridge roads opposite the looming Burke Mountain with its white snow slope gashes to the east. We would get there eventually, but for a while we rode with it on the horizon, a reminder of the challenge to come.

Burke Mountain

At one point we turned onto Bugbee Crossing Rd and I thought of the the Jamaican tribute to Bingy Bunny, Kingston 12 Toughie, a reggae album I bought years ago and still own.

This is the kind of stuff one thinks about briefly when it emerges from the flux of the pedaling life. Randomness flutters to the surface of the Long Crank, and then is gone. Bugbee Bingy Bunny Crossing.

Then an intersection and the dependable race volunteers directing us through & onto Brook Rd which led to Carter Rd (for whom did Jimmy Carter NOT come to mind?) and the first suggestions of softer, meltier dirt roads to come.

The Virginian (r) in the early mud

"Rasputitsa" of course means "mud season" but the difference between this year and last (I gather) is like the difference between a Trump rally and a Grateful Dead show circa 1972. The former, a macabre slurry of dangerous conditions and possible weather violence; the latter, a sunshine daydream. We did not yet realize, after a thousand feet or so of climbing on mostly tight-packed and sun-shaded road surfaces, that when the race turned eastward on Victory Rd and began to ascend, conditions would change quickly. The race's namesake would make sense at last. Except without the rawness and cold.

Cake frosting

Rather, in the midst of melt, with the sun blasting down unobstructed by cloud for two and a half days, the road surfaces were like foam playground mats, soft and spongy. sodden in many places as if smeared with milk chocolate cake batter several inches thick. Victory Rd then River Rd then Victory Hill Rd, the gloppy faces of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches slathered the roadway and we were forced to slap and sluice our way through. Low gear relentless turning of the pedals on the soft steep upticks, looking for the right line through the flat-faced line trenches of tire tracks and skid smears on the way down the other side. Finally just accepting the danger of slipping and mud-planting in exchange for the Fearless Plunge ahead.

Except even then, those of us who didn't ride last year had no idea of the relentless climbs looming ahead. We found a groove. At one point, several riders passed us and the Virginian, who'd spent an inordinate amount of time in arrears to that point (he'd confided yesterday to the Team Shad medical staff that he'd been feeling under the weather all week), said "Hey, that group has a good rhythm going, we should stay with them."

On board and headed past

I took his meaning and kicked it up a notch, fairly soon catching a trio of riders who themselves had briefly fallen away from the two stalwarts up ahead. I went passed the three, pulling the Virginian with me, and grabbed hold of the final two. Together, we sped across a coarse recently graded road surface toward what we knew loomed ahead, Cyberia, that stretch of ridiculous difficulty that, last year, with several feet of snow on the ground, was un-rideable. Riders carried their bikes up and over the pass, more than a mile. But not this year.

No, this year it was all about the steepness and the length. Strava lists the Victory Hill-Masten-KirbyMtnRd climb as a category three. This year, conditions were ideal. At that juncture, still together, Team Shad sped forward on the attack. It was time to gain any ground that could be gained.

Upward

Upward

Upward
Virginian (left, having shed his neon lime windbreaker)

I loved the climb. A huge climb late in a ride suits me. I'm no Charly Gall but I made do with my limited gifts and held steady where others walked, gritted it out where others struggled and failed. At a certain point, I left the Virginian behind, not on purpose but because I felt good and by the time I realized he was no longer with me, it was too late. Later, he would exact payback by attacking in the last eight miles and dropping me, but that was yet to come.

The Virginian reaching for maple syrup atop Cyberia

The going up of Cyberia demanded a descent down the other side that proved far worse than the dogged, gear-grinding climb. Long & sometimes steep, utterly-melted and slopped, the 4x4 path downhill was a monstrosity of gloppy ozzing suck ruts. Some were deeper, some not so much; some seemed safe, others promised certain carnage. Thankfully, the long climb through Cyberia to the iced maple syrup shots at the very top broke up any semblance of gruppetto so that the descent down the other side was pretty much without company.

I am not a skilled descender, nor one prone to taking risks. If I have a forte, it is going uphill, not down. So it was with considerable caution that I raced down the mud slide that was the Cyberian descent. In mid-plummet I realized that, had the thick ruts and wheel gullies I skittered through been frozen, there would have been serious carnage. But aside from some minor thigh & calf cramping from gripping the bike steady to maintain a straight line in the mucky moil, I navigated the sloppy drop off of Burke Mt. without mishap or unmanageable trauma.

The descent from Cyberia

Shortly thereafter the Virginian struck. Though I'd waited for him in the early goings when he was struggling to find his comfort zone, after the conquering of Cyberia, he seemed energized, impatient. On the descent, he rode off ahead, steadily, determined. I tried to keep him in sight but much of the remaining road was downhill and he is a wilier and more fearless descender than I. He kept going and was soon gone. Right about that time my water bottle cage began rattling, an unfortunate development because my pump was attached to my bike via the water bottle cage and with the whole contraption awry, my ability to pedal was threatened. Foolishly, I didn't have an allen wrench with me so couldn't tighten it myself.

I got off my bike and did my best to tighten it with my fingers. I could make it to the end, I thought. But if I went all-out on the washboard downhills, the whole thing might come undone. There was nothing to do but ride it out and hope for the best. And to chase after the Virginian under the long rolling stretches of big Vermont sky with the jet plane contrails and the open vistas of blue landscape light.

In pursuit

Inside three miles to go

I never saw the Virginian again until the end, until I was sprinting up the cracked pavement of the finishing line, then under the banner and through the timing point, and there he was, smiling broadly, cheering on his team leader like a blood brother.

The Conwegian Hammer (pronounced "Con WEE gee an") topped Dubstoevsky by 1 minute and forty seconds.

The Conwegian Hammer

The Virginian - #290 (3.10.02)
Dubstoevksy - #295 (3.11.42)

Full Race Results

Rasputitsa 2016 Part I

Rasputitsa 2016: Part I

Cretaceous Shad

There are sculptures in the yard in front of the public library in East Burke, just a couple hundred yards away from the Rasputitsa gathering spot in the parking lots behind the Publick House. One of the sculptures is of a large fish crafted from tin and metal scraps. Though resembling a barracuda with its torpedo-shaped body and thrusting lower jaw, I knew immediately that it was an ancestral shad, probably a Cretaceous Period prototype that possibly even swam through these craggy mountain up-swellings tens of thousands of years ago when this whole Northeast Kingdom was underwater.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps I was imagining too vividly, reaching too far across the spectrum of reason for omens that might suggest clues to the race ahead. I'm prone to such behavior. I take comfort in noticing spontaneous appearances of the number combination, 33. I covet espying wild creatures on the go, as occurred Friday afternoon when I was checking out some of the course and a red fox loped out of a field, crossed the road in front of me, and disappeared down the wooded ravine. I tend to think that if I pay close enough attention I will glean insight that otherwise would remain concealed within the chaotic & kaleidoscopic fabric of everyday Reality.

Team Shad

Encouraged by the fox sighting and convinced of the magic power of the Cretaceous Shad, I felt confident and ready. We were a team of two: I, Dubstoevsky, and the Conwegian Hammer (i.e., a denizen of Conway), affectionately known by fans across the globe as "the Virginian." This was the beginning of the season, the first of the Big Three events on Team Shad's race schdule, and instead of the icy/slushy/muddy savagery that's to be expected of the Rasputitsa, this year's iteration was a complete anomaly.

"Enjoy the incredible weather!" the race organizer told the huge throng of waiting riders, "because it will never be like this again!"

Indeed. By race start, the sun was above the mountain rim and pouring down on the assembled mass of madly-colored cyclists, removing all hint of chill from the air. There was no detectable wind and the only visible snow was on the ski slopes on Burke Mountain.

Pre-race staging ground

Smoke drifted across the parking lots from the bonfires race organizers had lit earlier in the morning lending the scene a slightly surreal aura, like something of out "Apocalypse Now." A small drone with a camera buzzed overhead, filming the crowd of riders. The Virginian gave it the finger.

Everyone was eager to get underway. It seemed incredible that this third iteration of the Rasputitsa would take place under such gentle conditions - like a de-clawed tiger, or near beer. And yet no one complained. To the contrary, sunny dispositions matched the sunny sky. Several riders around us who'd ridden last year when conditions were more winter-like than early spring with icy, frozen ground and thick snow on the stretch known as Cyberia, shook their heads in contented wonder.

Start line, sans corrals

Interestingly, the organizers had indicated that there would be corrals in which riders would gather themselves depending on their presumed time & ability. We glanced around for such corrals but they were, apparently, a chimera that lived only in the imagination of the race committee. It was just a huge gathering of cyclists stretching a hundred yards or so back from the start line, and so we simply insinuated ourselves into the mix around midway.

Finally, the prerequisite race announcements, thank-you's, and reminders done with, it was time to get underway! The mass of cyclists fidgeted into action with a cacophony of cleats clicking into pedals and a collective inhale and exhale of breath and, in fits and starts, we lurched en masse into motion.

In the neutral zone

Though the first two miles were ostensibly neutral during which we'd follow a lead-out car up paved Burke Hollow Rd., the peloton quickly unfolded into a long, loosely-connected train. The immediate instinct is to push hard quickly and try to get ahead of ... whoever is around you. It's a race, after all. But to do so is a mistake, and I reminded myself of that as the Virginian and I pedaled along in a moderate cadence. The race would be long and, as wily veterans, we both knew that the race would not be won in the first few miles but that it could be lost there. So we kept ourselves in check and warmed up at a comfortable pace. Plenty of those who passed us, we knew we'd be seeing again, probably as we passed them on the long, torturous slopes of Cyberia three quarters of the way through.

The real racing kicked in when the peloton turned left onto East Darling Hill Rd, a dusty, dry ridge road that rolled up and down for a few miles and which further split the race apart. The riders far off the front were the Kings and Queens of the race, the ones who would finish in just over two hours (!), the Elite. They were not our quarry. We knew that we were not racing against them. Rather, we were competing against ourselves, and against the rest of the enthusiastic and relentless amateurs that made up the bulk of the race, probably 375 riders or so of the more than 500 total participants.

End of Part I

Rasputitsa 2016: Part II

The Hunt for the Holy Grail (of Beer)

Travel day, into the Green Mountain State, north toward the Northeast Kingdom, toward the staging grounds for the Rasputitsa. But before all mental and spiritual energy lasers in on the race, another quixotic adventure comes first, the hunt for the holy grail of beer, the Heady Topper, that elusive IP brewed in Waterbury and not widely distributed. It's impossible to procure beyond a 50 mile radius (or less) of the Alchemist Brewery. However, with Friday delivery schedule in hand, I flogged the Team Shad car north with abandon, determined to arrive in Heady Land before all the day's offerings were gone.

Cruel fate presented itself at the first stop, the Sunflower Cooperative (or something like that). I pulled into the parking lot around 11:30 and saw a dude putting a four pack of the Topper into the trunk of his car. But when I went inside I was dealt a blow - all the Topper was gone!

Low grade panic began to set in. What if I were too late? What if I'd miscalculated and detoured all this way to Heady Land in vain? I shuddered, rushed for the car, backed up at high speed and, in a shower of gravel and dust, sped north on rt. 100 toward the next option.

Heady in the Window

That proved to be the Cold Hollow Cider Mill and, OMG, there it was, the Topper! But a limit to one 4 pack per person. Done. The success proved stimulating and off I went to Stowe to check some other locations. I didn't have to go further than the Mountain Cheese & Wine Shop. There, a very friendly woman overseeing a shop well-stocked with fine cheeses and excellent wines, pointed out the Heady Topper at the bottom of the beer cooler.

"What's my limit?" I asked, overjoyed by finding another batch.

"Well," she said "Normally it's two 4 packs per person but it seems like it's going to be slow around here so if you want to get a whole case, you're welcome to it."

Ka-CHING! Sold!

One more stop after that yielded one additional four pack and, coolers laden, I pointed the team car east toward Lyndon.

The Team Car in front of room #9

Got to Lyndon by 2:30 and found the classically timeless Lyndon Motor Lodge. As luck would have it, there had been a cancellation so a second room was available. I quickly reserved it for the Virginian so now both Shad riders have their own accommodations.

Then it was off to check out the registration area, the departure zone, and the course, at least some of it. Everything was easy to find and the vibes were good along the road. Not to mention that it was a stellar day, clear and bright and dry.

With the Niceness!

Now, hunkered down at the Lyndon Motor Lodge, the internet connection is dodgy and it's getting late and time to turn in for the night. Tomorrow, the Big Race!

Sunny Side Up

Forecast for race day, East Burke, VT, as of Wednesday night, April 13

It's fitting that following an exceedingly mild el nino winter, this year's Rasputitsa is shaping up to be mild as well with lots of sun and temps in the 60s. At least that's the forecast just three and a half days before race day.

Team Shad welcomes this development. Mud & cold, raw overcast skies, rain & snow, these are not ideal conditions for Team Shad, despite the propensity of our namesake herring to favor cold ocean depths. Indeed, following a Friday that's also forecast to be sunny and clear, the course might possibly be in ideal shape on Saturday.

As for the squad, we're a carefully chosen, tight knit unit of two. Lacking the relentless physicality of youth, we must employ instead guile and karma, stealth and meditation. To state the obvious, we lack numbers. But we have many years of cycling experience between us and our intentions are pure so we are confident in a solid showing.

Typical pre-race headquarters established at the Lyndon Motor Lodge, strategically close to the race start yet also bounteous in luxury for the riders. For example, each rider gets his own bed (one's a queen, the other's a twin. I.e. the beds.). And there's a bathroom. And hot water. Perfection.

Beaver log, in the woods of Shutesbury

You know, they say that the American beaver is one helluva tenacious and indomitable creature, a tireless, determined character that somehow also seems to possess a sense of humor, like, hey, check me out, I just chewed down a maple tree, heh heh heh. There's something both admirable and laughable about them.

Just this past Sunday on our last training ride, the Virginian and I were reminded of this when the forest road we were riding along devolved rather abruptly into a babbling river fed by an overflowing beaver pond, and became impassable. In the forest around the trail lay plenty of evidence of beavers. Once while kayaking with DS Mawgs a decade ago, he and I came upon some fresh, beaver-gnawed twigs and we took a few as souvenirs. We called them "beaver sticks." What the Virginian and I saw scattered about were not beaver sticks but beaver LOGS. And it occurred me then - I must strive to ride with beaver indefatigability (intentional sic). I must gnaw the obstacle patiently and within my means until I prevail.

Practical Notes

Layering. With the possibility of nice mild weather, now I have to pack for every possibility, not just for "cold, wet, and crappy." Now, nuance is involved. Will it be cold at 9:00 in the morning? Will the sun be fully out or will clouds still be in place? Will it cloud up during the day? Or will it just get warmer?

The Crux Elite in the dungeon of Shad

These are impossible things to know until race morning, so the prudent Dubstoevsky must account for multiple layering options. It will all be packed in durable LL Bean canvas toes (each monogramed "Bonks" though not as a sort of preemptive jinx against every cyclist's nightmare, i.e. bonking, but actually a reference to the familial form of the professional moniker Bonkers the Clown, the character that Dubstoevsky played, once upon a time, in a circus that traveled the Ukraine, Moldova, & Belarus), and along with several coolers (for storage of the elusive Heady Topper should any be procured, as well as pre & post race ital provisions), all stuffed into the boot & back seat of the team car. With the Crux Elite riding in genuflection on top.

Ask for it

Special thanks out to the team's single sponsor, TJRZOG Salt & Mineral, DFW, Ltd of Bender Moldova, which, in conjunction with Ed Hyder's Mediterranean Marketplace, brings the team water bottles filled with smoked-coarse-sea-salt-infused water.

When plain water just isn't nasty enough.