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