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