Grab a drink, light the fire, and give yourself 20 minutes to immerse yourself….
The scene below me looks like something out of a postcard. A deep, green forested valley spreads out in both directions, punctuated by tiny stone buildings and narrow, winding roads that weave like snakes through its folds and undulations. The air is calm and still; warm with the heat of the August sun and defiant of the unsettled clouds that roil to the west, building over the ridges like heavy, dark cotton. Beneath them, the jagged peaks of the mountains rise in steely grey spires, intimidating and unyielding.
My perspective changes as my gaze falls on the terrain immediately in front of me, where a steep wooden ramp falls away sharply into a rocky trail that drops vertiginously (freaking steep AF) to the valley floor far below. It looks like a thick brown rope as it jags and sweeps its way down the slope below; steep, rocky, and menacing. As I strain to trace its line down to where it meets the dusty darkness beneath the trees, my mind manages to tear its focus away for just long enough to allow the questions to start echoing through my head.
“What am I doing here?”
“What have I gotten myself into?”
It’s a setting and a situation that would normally be commonplace. Hailing from Alberta, I am no stranger to mountains and steep terrain. The difference that makes the questions relevant is that the slate coloured peaks jutting skyward around me are not the Rocky Mountains. They are the Dolomites, and the trail slithering away at my feet is the world-famous “Blake Snake” downhill track in Val di Sole, Italy – a course both feared and renowned for its difficulty. It is our first day in Val di Sole and we have come to walk the track before it becomes clogged with other riders. Five days from now the track will host the 2016 World Masters Downhill Mountain Bike Championships and we, God willing, will be taking part.
Two weeks ago this scenario had been unthinkable. For the past three years I have been racing under the banner of the Graviti Driven team, a collective of riders assembled and managed by Jerrod Hoskins. This season though, due to work schedules and other commitments, I haven’t done a single race. I am out of shape and unprepared, and as I stare out the rectangular gate of the start hut I begin, once, again, to question my own sanity. Any normal person would think it would be sheer madness to dive straight into a World Championship as their first race of the season, and they would be absolutely right.
Jerrod and I are not “normal” people.
I attribute this moment entirely to Jerrod. He has been working tirelessly for the better part of two years to prepare for this race, and it is only through his sheer will and determination that we are here at all. It was Jerrod who started us racing in the first place. Jerrod who created and facilitated the Graviti Driven team. Jerrod who renovated an entire warehouse and filled it with jumps, a pump track, and fitness equipment to keep us sharp during the winter months when riding outdoors in Calgary is impossible. Jerrod who has been the driving force behind every race outing we have made since 2013, and Jerrod who convinced me at the 11th hour to come on this trip. It hasn’t been the smoothest ride for him either – we have both had to fight through significant injuries, and the eternal struggle to balance the demands of work and family with the need to ride and train only seems to get more difficult with each passing year. And the most ludicrous part of it all is that we have only been riding downhill mountain bikes since late 2012.
From zero to World Championships in four years.
Nope, not normal at all.
I am still shaking my head at the incredulity of it all when I hear footsteps coming up behind me, the sound louder than it should be as it jars my thoughts back to the present moment. Jerrod joins me in the start hut and both of us stare out down the valley, taking in the vista below.
“Now that’s a hell of a view”.
Yes, it certainly is.
I’ve been apprehensive about this course since I first agreed to come, and seeing the first few hundred feet of the track certainly isn’t doing anything to put my mind at rest. Right out of the gate is a fast right hand turn followed by a sizeable road gap, and we stand there gawking at it for several minutes. It is definitely bigger than anything either of us has ever hit before, and we’re struggling to get our heads around it. Jerrod stands on the roadway underneath the launch ramp, spreading his arms wide as he poses for a photo. We figure it’s about thirty feet long from nose to knuckle, and the drop is at least ten feet high. It’s built for the pace of a World Cup race, and although we’re not yet sure of the required speed, we know it will be fast. Fast, and mildly terrifying. There is a ride-around line on the left, with a few janky corners and an awkward wooden bridge that spans a deep ditch next to the road. It looks slow as hell. Jerrod and I do the math in our heads, and we figure the ride-around option will cost between four and six seconds. It’s no surprise, but it’s pretty obvious that a winning run is going to include that road gap.
The landing and run-out are mercifully wide and straight, but are followed up by a wicked high speed left hand corner. The berm is already dry and cancerous, and it is evident that it’s going to be full of holes come race day. From there the course traverses an open meadow, winding back and forth on a rock-strewn sidehill before committing to a small step down jump followed by a steep, blind fall away. The size of the banked corner at the bottom betrays the fact that riders are going to be flying at this point, as it funnels the track to the right and through an impossibly rough boulder field.
Then it gets into the trees.
Jerrod stops at the top of the first chute and looks back, his face a mask of disbelief. The track below is a killing field of roots, stumps, and rocks, all dripping down the side of the mountain at an angle steep enough to give a mountain goat pause to reconsider. The trees are tight to the sides of the course, making the margin of error very small. The whole thing is a mess of braided lines cut into a deceptive carpet of thick, silty dust that covers everything, hiding the holes and ledges that lurk in the dappled shadows, waiting to catch the wheel of an unsuspecting rider. In what is becoming a well-established routine, both of us take one look, shake our heads, and mutter a few colourful metaphors under our breath.
It doesn’t get any easier from there. High, gnarly roots, huge boulders, awkward notches, and steep, off-camber corners punctuate the rest of the course, all blanketed by that heavy moon dust. In some places it is hub deep.
The whole track is a murderer’s row of obstacles, each section with its own unique and decidedly nasty character. There are several rock gardens with no obvious line through them; in fact the boulders seem to have been deliberately placed to eliminate any smooth passage. There is a long step-down floater jump with a run-in that is impossibly difficult to carry speed through. Some of the chutes are so steep that we have a hard time walking down them, and the middle of the course is punctuated with a winding staircase of roots and ledges set on a ridiculous incline and interspersed with several tight corners. Of course, it runs right underneath the gondola, promising a spectacular view of the carnage that is sure to occur there. Near the bottom there is another, much smaller but still tricky road gap, and a long, floating jump that has a landing area lined with distance markers not in feet, but metres. They go up to 25.
Jerrod and I are still shaking our heads by the time we reach the bottom. It takes a few minutes for the shock & awe to wear off as we sit down at the base area for some liquid refreshment. Jerrod predictably finishes his drink first, then a sadistic grin spreads across his face. I know what he is going to say before the words even leave his mouth.
It’s time to get the bikes.
A little over a half hour later, we laugh nervously as we once again peer out of the start gate and down the wooden ramp. It seems even more intimidating from behind a handlebar. Jerrod flips his goggles on and drops in, and I follow immediately, tasting the anticipation of the moment. The first corner is fast and scrabbly, then we’re on the brakes right away. We’re not quite ready for that road gap yet. The ride-around sucks just as much as we thought it would, and then we let go and accelerate through the open, sweeping upper section. Walking the course was a sobering experience, but riding it is something else entirely. We are still apprehensive but the stoke is huge. We pick our way down the first time, breaking the course up into sections as we go. It is actually a blast to dissect the course like this, taking on each individual challenge and allowing our confidence to build,
About three quarters of the way down we run into the legend himself: Pier Paulo Marani, or “Pippo” as he is affectionately known. The designer and caretaker of the Black Snake course, he is the man responsible for creating this monster. We joke with him about his track trying to kill us, and he laughs along with us just long enough divert our attention away from the subject; we only realize later that he never actually denied anything. One of Pippo’s young helpers, doubling as a translator, informs us that the spry Italian man doesn’t even ride bikes. When we ask the kid for a little advice on line choice, his eyes widen as he looks back at us in surprise. “Are you kidding me? You’ve got to be nuts to ride this stuff.”
Point taken.
We do another lap then decide to head out for dinner. I take a quick shower to get cleaned up before we go, and when I come out of the bathroom Jerrod is texting his coach and friend, Chris Kovarik. He has a strange expression on his face. When I ask what wise counsel may have been gleaned from the Karver, Jerrod relays that Chris’ advice consisted of “Val di Sole is a proper DH track. Just pray it doesn’t rain”. As if on que, a cool gust blows in through the open door to the balcony and we hear the telltale first drops of a late afternoon shower. Great. If a muddy track here strikes fear into the heart of a guy like Kovarik, what chance do us mere mortals have? I watch the pavement outside begin to darken as the rainfall intensifies, and wonder once again what I have gotten myself into.
Dinner is fantastic, just the thing we need to get our minds off of the track and unwind a bit. We find a small pizza restaurant and quickly discover why these things made Italy famous. It is the best pizza we have ever had in our lives. Our spirits lifted, we step out of the restaurant and explore the tiny village for a few minutes. Mestriago is probably only about six square blocks, but it is six square blocks of the most ridiculously picturesque village on earth. The whole Val di Sole area is breathtaking, with verdant slopes rising skyward to the rugged teeth of the Brenta Dolomites. Pavement steams and centuries-old stone buildings glisten in the evening light, still lacquered with the remnants of the rainstorm that has mercifully ceased – for now. The river churns and roils with the runoff from the surrounding area, and west of us, further up the Valley of the Sun, heavy skies are massing again with the promise of more precipitation. Undaunted, we spend the better part of an hour rambling around town and taking pictures. Might as well enjoy ourselves now, we reason, because tomorrow is going to be an interesting day.
We wake up in the morning to find that the course is closed all day for inspection by the UCI. We knew in advance that it would be off limits in the morning, but are surprised to find that we are actually not able to ride it until the following afternoon. Evidently those UCI inspectors are pretty thorough. Our hearts aren’t completely broken though, because the day has dawned grey and overcast, and the muddy rivulets coursing down the open slopes of the valley are evidence that there was significant rainfall the night before. The breakfast buffet at the hotel is nothing short of amazing: various meats, cheese, pastries, yogurt, granola, and a dazzling array of fresh fruit. As we sit down with our plates though, one of the other hotel guests makes a comment about the weather and we learn that it has started raining again. Mother Nature isn’t finished with us yet.
After breakfast we discuss our options for the day. Since we can’t get on the track at all, we decide to make the most of the poor weather and take a sightseeing trip up the valley. Driving west up Val di Sole’s namesake, the road twists through dozens of quaint little villages. Massana, Ossana, and Vermiglio all look like they sprouted from the pages of a book of fairytales, and the medieval castle ruins at Ossana provide us with a forum to perform an impromptu recital of several lines from “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” – much to the amusement and/or sheer confusion of the other tourists. We continue on, pushing higher up a narrow notch in the mountains until we reach the wild and beautiful Passo del Tonale. From there the road plunges down a series of hairpin switchbacks, then follows a rushing stream down to the tiny city of Edolo. Edolo is spectacular. Impossibly narrow cobblestone streets lace the side of the mountains like spiderwebs, forming a mysterious but inviting maze through the rough stone houses and Romanesque churches. The river running through the city centre looks as if it were built there, walled into a stone floodway lined by lush greenery and impeccable flower gardens. The rain lets up long enough for us to spend a few hours wandering around and eat lunch in one of the tiny little restaurants that line the main street. They don’t speak English and we don’t speak Italian, but we manage to figure things out and are rewarded some delicious sandwiches that hit the spot perfectly. Heading back to the car afterwards, we briefly toy with the idea of heading northwest into Switzerland but decide instead to head back to the hotel, driving through intermittent rain showers all the way back. The day has been a pleasant diversion but the realization is creeping in that the task to come in the following days will not be an easy one.
The restaurant at our hotel comes highly recommended and we choose to “stay in” for dinner that night. As we sit down to eat, we run into another group of English speakers and immediately strike up a conversation. To our surprise, they are also Canadian. John Rideout and his wife Lise are accompanied by Derrick and Melanie Rockhill, all from Vancouver. John, Derrick and Melanie are all here to race; Lise is along for the experience. We end up putting our tables together and by the end of the night it feels like we’ve known each other for years. We make plans to meet up in the morning and do some training laps together so we can share strategy. We figure maybe we can learn from each other – none of us are racing in the same category anyway, and having several sets of eyes can only benefit all of us. John, Derrick, and Mel are all experienced riders and John, the elder statesman of the group at 69, already has a few rainbow jerseys hanging in his closet at home.
By the time we wake up the next day it has stopped raining and the skies are sunny and clear. We initially figure this is a good sign, until we actually get on the track. What was difficult before has become 2000 vertical feet of certain death. The moon dust that covered the course two days ago has transformed into a thick mud with slipperiness properties bordering on otherworldly. Every root and rock feels like it has been greased. We do one lap, but it’s more sheer survival than actual practice. The chutes are terrifying, and even touching your brakes makes you slide out instantly and ricochet down the mountain out of control. Derrick is clearly uncomfortable and picks his way down cautiously – he is already fighting a knee injury and doesn’t want to aggravate it any further. Jerrod bails on the root staircase. John has a couple minor offs but is relatively unscathed. I get a little too confident heading into a slick rock garden and slam hard. Gasping for breath as I pick myself up, it takes me a few minutes to recover before I can continue. I don’t know it at the time, but the fall has broken two ribs. Battered but not completely broken, we continue gamely down the course before regrouping at the bottom. Every corner is an adventure, every technical section a prayer. Trying the road gap in these conditions doesn’t even cross our minds. When we reach to base area more or less intact we consider it a miracle and decide to give the track a little more time to dry out before trying it again.
After 2 days of rain we’re not quite ready to give up on riding yet, so we seek out a change of pace to get ourselves back in the proper mindset. Val di Sole is riddled with trails; most of them are of the cross-country variety but there are a few more DH-oriented tracks. The trick, we discover, is actually finding them. Derrick, Melanie, John, Jerrod, and I head all the way up the mountain in search of a trail called 712, which is supposed to be a mellow but entertaining descent all the way to the valley floor. The view from the top is spectacular, and 712 starts off as a fun singletrack rip across high alpine meadows and down through perfectly spaced trees. The sightlines are good and the gentle gradient is just enough to provide some natural flow. It is exactly what we were looking for, at least until it spills out of the forest on to a ski run and disappears entirely. We see buildings nearby, the tops of idle chairlifts and what looks like a restaurant. It’s obviously the midpoint of one of Val di Sole’s many ski stations, but the whole place is deserted except for a work truck full of crusty-looking maintenance men. I flag them down and attempt to ask directions in what could be generously described as marginal Italian.
“Dove si trova la pista 712?”
They stare at us like we are invaders from outer space, then the guy behind the wheel says something I can’t even begin to understand, shrugs his shoulders, and starts the engine. It is clear that the conversation is over. We search the area for a few more minutes without success, then come to a consensus that the ski runs must all lead to the bottom eventually, so we just pick one and bomb down it freeride-style. The long grass hides several nasty surprises like logs, ruts, and square-edged drainage ditches, but before long we throw caution to the wind and start racing down the open slopes, shouts of excitement and occasional panic ringing through the air as we go. As we near the valley bottom the ski runs converge into another small village, and we tear through the tiny streets like motorcycle racers, tempting fate by leaning deep into the turns. We spot what looks like race tape marking a trail into the trees and decide on impulse to follow it. As we drop in we barely have time to notice a small red sign nailed to a tree as we flash past: 712. We have reconnected with the lost trail. The lower section of 712 is rooty, rocky, and technical; much like its older brother Black Snake but without the steep pitch and homicidal tendencies. It is drier here too, and the slick goop slathered all over the race course is largely absent. Soon enough we drop out of the forest and onto an ancient gravel road, which leads us back to civilization in the form of yet another storybook micro village called Almazzago. We goon it up the rest of the way down, flicking rocks around with our front tires, sending hucks to flat off 500 year old stone retaining walls, and seeing who can manual the longest down the canted and winding streets. It takes us well over an hour to get down, and despite not getting much actual race practice it has been a pretty damn good day. We finish it off by doing another track walk with John and Mel, discussing race strategy. At this point, survival is the common theme.
The next morning, we are running out of time and excuses, and we need to get down to business. Derrick has opted out and will not be racing or riding for the rest of the week. His knee is giving him a lot of trouble and the hair-raising lap in the previous day’s abysmal conditions has left him rattled. He is probably the only one in our group with a brain in his head. The four remaining members of our group head up the mountain and before long are standing in a loose huddle at the top contemplating the road gap. None of us are sure of the speed, and the size of the jump and potential consequences of getting it wrong are playing havoc in our minds. The tension is broken when 69 year-old John suddenly mounts up, straps on his gear, and sends the thing effortlessly, like he was riding off a curb. Jerrod and I stare at each other for a moment, awestruck. Then the embarrassment starts creeping in and we both know what must be done. On go the helmets, on go the goggles, and we breathe a silent prayer and drop in.
The run-in is fast, faster even than we remembered it once we commit to staying off the brakes. The first turn flies by as we accelerate towards the point of no return, and then we are airborne; weightless for a long breathtaking moment before we touch back down and rocket towards that rough 90 degree left.
John is waiting there for us, his face split by a wicked grin. Hi-fives and fist bumps are exchanged as we celebrate slaying the dragon, but all the while we are aware that it is only the first of many. Still, we are pumped. The adrenaline flows through us like a river and we begin to believe that maybe we can actually do this after all.
The rest of the run does its best to temper our excitement, but is only marginally successful. The course is drying out quickly, with only a few sections remaining truly slick. The rest of the track isn’t any less treacherous however, as we discover that the dirt in Val di Sole exhibits almost mystical properties when it comes to moisture. It is either a thick, greasy slime when wet, or a powdery, talc-like silt when dry. There seems to be no in between. The day is warm, and by the afternoon the sun has returned most of the course to its former moon dust, and we are beginning to link sections together with more confidence. What concerns us now is putting the whole thing together at race speed. The next day will be seeding, and neither of us has even ridden the entire track top to bottom without stopping yet, much less trying to do it at race speed.
At some point during the afternoon we run into two more Canadians: Kevin Simard and his girlfriend Melanie Lessard. Kevin is racing in my category but is a much more accomplished rider than I am. I’m here for the experience – he’s here to win. It’s still nice to meet some more friendly faces from home and they both quickly integrate into our growing entourage. It is the people you meet, we are finding, that truly make trips like this memorable. By the end of the day we have coalesced into a close knit group and are having a great time figuring out the course and socializing. Kevin seems pretty locked in and competitive, whereas Jerrod and I are feeling more comfortable with the course but still have a few things to figure out. We all know that tomorrow is going to be a big day.
The morning comes earlier than any of us would like it to, and it is apparent that we are already on edge a little more than usual. The atmosphere around the base area has seriously ramped up, with a massive pit area filling several parking lots near the gondola and the finish line now sporting large bleachers, a covered stage, and more UCI and sponsor banners than you can count. Faces that were relaxed and laughing 24 hours ago are now grim and focused, and even the tone of conversation seems to be more tense and abrupt. It is definitely go time.
Mel and John’s seeding runs are much earlier than ours, so we hang out at the base and take some pictures of them coming in. Both perform well, putting down solid runs that have them feeling pretty good about their prospects for the “real” race tomorrow. Both of them are pretty laid back and don’t seem to be letting the stress get to them at all, but it is still apparent that getting their seeding runs out of the way has taken some weight off their shoulders. I have mixed feelings about mine. On one hand I want to just get it over with, but on the other hand I still feel woefully unprepared. I still haven’t even ridden the whole track without stopping, and am seriously questioning whether or not I can even do it at race speed. I’ve been living on a steady diet of extra-strength Advil ever since my crash a few days prior, and I can’t breathe or stretch properly and haven’t been sleeping well. Jerrod seems more confident than I am, but I know he is battling some demons of his own. Neither one of us has been able to put in the necessary training time to really be successful at something like this, and now that the intensity has been turned up a few notches it seems like both of us are feeling a little out of place.
Jerrod’s drop is about forty-five minutes before mine, and he doesn’t say much as he heads over to the gondola. He is much better at this stuff than I am – racing is his passion – but this is by far the biggest stage either of us has ever been on. When I finally load up to head up the mountain, I ride the gondola alone, lost in my thoughts. I try to remember the course, every painstaking detail etched into my brain from the previous few days. I do my best to stay grounded, telling myself that it’s just like any other race I’ve done before. Don’t worry about the result, just take care of your own performance and everything will be fine. I re-visit the mantra I’ve been using since Jerrod first dragged me kicking and screaming into racing three years prior.
“Calm. Smooth. Fast”.
Three words, always in that order. I reason that if I can stay calm and minimize mistakes, I’ll be able to stay on my bike. If I can avoid crashing and just be smooth and relaxed, the speed will take care of itself. I’ve never won a race, but I’ve never been last either, so I figure the philosophy has worked for me on some level.
My introspection is interrupted briefly as the gondola passes over the infamous root staircase in the middle of the course, and I look down just in time to see Jerrod drop out of the trees and carve through the first ledgy corner. I shout a few words of encouragement before he slips out of sight, hoping that he gets the run he wants. I know this has been something he has wanted for a long time and I would love to see him do well.
When I get to the top, I notice that a large Red Bull big-top style tent has sprouted up near the start hut. It feels surreal pushing my bike underneath it, like I have passed into an alternate reality previously inhabited only by the superhuman riders that I have watched in bike movies or on the internet. It seems almost ridiculous to imagine, but a few yards of fabric has just made the gravity of what I am doing incredibly – and painfully – real. Welcome to the big leagues, kids.
The next few minutes are a blur. I find a spot in the open meadow and do my best to clear my mind. Before I know it I am lining up with the rest of my category, queueing in order of our race plates. I see Kevin preparing for his run and quickly wish him luck before we all start filing out of the start hut and down the race course one by one, like lemmings with 30 second intervals.
The line progresses faster than I would like it to. As I get closer and closer to the start hut I notice the other riders around me growing quieter, each lost in their own pre-race ritual. Helmets on, goggles down, some of them silently bobbing and weaving their heads as they mentally anticipate the task to come. The start hut seems almost threatening; like a portal to another dimension that we must all inevitably pass through. Four riders to go in front of me, then three, two, one, and suddenly I am at the front of the line, balanced on my pedals and a short wooden railing, waiting for the timer to count me down with a series of electronic beeps. Never before has such an unassuming sound seemed so intimidating. The final beep sounds, I press ahead, and the world is left behind me as I rocket down the start ramp towards the road gap. It is butter smooth, and once I land my body seems to slip into autopilot as I attack the rest of the course. The track walks and practice laps are over, now it is time to find out what I have learned.
The track becomes a blur, each section internalized once more as I negotiate it. Each root, each rock, each rut. I stick most of my lines through the top third of the course and am feeling pretty good about my run until the fatigue starts to set in. It starts in my fingers and progresses up into my forearms, making me tense and apprehensive. I no longer feel like I have the strength to brake effectively and have to use two fingers on the levers, which slows me down considerably. With the loss of speed, I hit everything harder. Every bump seems to transmit itself up through the bars, into my arms, and ultimately to my chest, where the pain of my broken ribs threatens to stop me in my tracks. I grit my teeth and carry on, trying to ignore the discomfort and gut it out to the finish line. I know I am losing a lot of time, and I feel myself subconsciously ease up my pace, no longer pushing hard like I was at the top. By the time I get three quarters of the way down the track, I am just hanging on and focusing on survival. They call the section just before the bottom “The Hell”, and for good reason. By the time I reach it my fingers and forearms are screaming in submission and it is all I can do just to hold on to the bars. A steep chute just before the track leaves the forest for the last time threatens to send me sliding out of control, but I manage to stay upright and wrestle the bike down into the open slope above the finish. I play it safe off the “Pippo Jump” leading into the last corners, knowing that I am running on fumes. It is only in the final straightaway that I can finally let go of the brakes, giving my arms a slight reprieve as I launch the last step down over the finish line itself.
I made it.
My time is not good, but I am more proud of the fact that I actually made it down in one piece. Jerrod greets me at the finish and we immediately commiserate about the punishing nature of the course. Neither one of us has put in the time that we wanted, but it feels like an accomplishment nonetheless. We’re still intact, which is more than several of the other riders can say. The finish area is already dotted with an impressive array of slings and bandages, and the ranks of the walking wounded will only continue to grow over the next 24 hours as the Black Snake exacts its pound of flesh. Kevin turns up a little while later, his face a mask of dust and his helmet sporting several impressive gouges. He caught his front wheel in a rut halfway down the track and went over the bars hard, injuring his shoulder. He is upset and unsure if he will be able to race the next day, and his disappointment is evident. Even with the crash, his seeding time is still a full 30 seconds faster than mine.
We spend a few minutes hanging out around the finish area, recuperating and sharing a few cold (and complimentary) Red Bulls. Before long Kevin heads back to his hotel to fix his bike and get some treatment for his shoulder, and Mel, Derrick, John, and Lise decide to take some down time for the rest of the afternoon. Jerrod and I are tired but not ready to pack it in quite yet, and we decide to celebrate making it through seeding with a few more burner laps down 712. We grab our gear and head up the gondola, relieved at our relative success. We know that the real race is still to come, but for the moment it seems a million miles away and we commit ourselves to having fun doing what we love best – riding bikes.
At the top of the gondola we somehow end up talking to a bunch of other racers who have apparently had the same idea. They are from the Czech Republic, and they are in the same position we were three days ago, knowing that there are other trails in Val di Sole but having no idea where to find them. The conversation morphs into an invitation, and before long we are blasting down 712 in a long line of riders, carving turns and savoring the sweet singletrack and high alpine views. This time we turn off early, following a hunch that leads us on to a serpentine fire road where we drift turns and bomb the straightaways. We find a few steep and gnarly chutes between the switchbacks, and notice some oddly-placed signs that seem to be indicators for not only 712, but also another trail so inventively named 714. Immediately we follow the markers and drop into the forest. Some sections of the trail are little more than hiking paths, but the flow is undeniable and we are having a great time cruising through the trees until we come flying around a blind corner and come face to face with massive set of bovine eyes looking back at us.
Cows. Dozens of them.
We jam on the brakes and skid to a hasty stop as the herd surrounds us, bells clanking as the animals plod lazily up the mountain. Somewhere towards the back of the group, someone is waving a stick and hollering in Italian, pushing the cows down the trail and up towards some unknown pasture. We look at each other and laugh, caught up in the unlikely hilarity of the moment. We are completely surrounded, the cows paying no attention to us as they fill the trail from side to side and spill over into the trees beside us, leaving us engulfed in a swelling sea of beef. The Czechs are dumbfounded. Jerrod and I have seen a lot of things mountain biking, but this is a first. Eventually the last few cows saunter past and the cow herder at the back offers a breathless “Buongiorno” as he brushes by, still waving his stick in the air to keep the stragglers moving. Shaking our heads, we mount up and push on down the trail, taking care to avoid any surprises left behind by the cattle. Some rides are made memorable for a lot of different reasons, and this is one we won’t soon forget.
The day ends too quickly, and is replaced by the familiar sting of anxiety as we wake up the next morning and begin preparing for race day. This is the big one. It’s for keeps this time, with the winner taking home the hardware and the losers left with the nagging reminder of what could have been. Ready or not, the race is upon us. The mood is optimistic but cheerful at breakfast; John and Mel have early start times and they are already suited up and ready to go. Jered and I will drop later, so we head out to the finish area to watch the action before it’s our turn to head up. We end up being able to stay long enough to watch both John and Mel win their categories with solid runs, and spirits are high as hugs and high fives are exchanged at the finish line. It feels great to see them come through on top and be able to share in the victory. In a few short days our little group has grown close, and we all feel a sense of pride in the accomplishment. There isn’t much time to enjoy it though, as before long Jerrod and I are heading up the gondola ourselves. It’s business time.
Jerrod seems focused and ready. I am doing my best to stay calm but inside my thoughts are going a million miles an hour. Even though I don’t expect to be competitive and I know that any chance at making the podium is an extreme long shot, there is still an element of “what if everything came together perfectly” that haunts the back of my head like a vengeful apparition, goading me towards a door that any self-respecting horror movie fan knows I shouldn’t enter.
Jerrod drops well before me. I wish him the best of luck then pull away and find a spot up in the meadow where I can prepare myself mentally. The feeling is different today; less fear and apprehension and more a quiet resignation that it’s time to get things done. I’m not afraid of the road gap anymore – in fact I have come to the realization that it’s probably the easiest thing on the course – and I know the track as well as anyone here. Now I just need to perform.
The problem is that I don’t know if I can.
I haven’t said anything to anyone, but I am exhausted. I have been relying on painkillers just to get myself through the last four days, and I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in almost a week. I can tell that my energy reserves are critically low, and I know that I am feeling the exact opposite of how I should be heading into the most important race of my life. My seeding run the day before was much more physically demanding than it should have been, and I am having doubts about my fitness, stamina, and ability. In short, I’m a mess. I sit there staring out over the valley, taking in the incredible view and reflecting on how lucky I am just to be here and what an amazing experience it has been so far. Despite the stress and the fatigue and the injuries, I don’t want it all to end.
I am jarred away from my thoughts by the timekeeper calling for my category to line up. Just standing up and wheeling my bike down the slope of the open meadow feels like a monumental effort, and a briefly consider not dropping. There is a temptation to just ride away and miss my start time, leave the race behind and spend the rest of the day having fun over on 712, but the reality is that Jerrod and I did not fly halfway around the world to be spectators. Despite the challenges we have faced and the obstacles we have had to overcome, we are here now, sharing a track with the best riders of our age group in the entire world. I owe it to Jerrod, to my family, and to everyone who has supported me over the years to compete in this race and do the best I can.
I owe it to myself.
I shake off the fatigue and line up, waiting for my turn in the start hut. Before I know it the officials are verifying my race plate and number, checking my for the mandatory body armor, and crossing my name off their list. I am committed now. I take my place above the ramp and wait for the beeps to count me down, then push forward and lay it all on the line.
The road gap is effortless, but the turn following it is anything but. I go in fast and hard, and my race run almost ends before it starts as I plow through several gigantic bomb holes that have opened up in the berm, the multiple impacts jarring my grip and almost shaking my right hand right off the bars. I recover somewhat messily and try to compose myself over the next section, working hard to ignore the adrenaline dump after my near miss and keep myself from getting rattled. It works, more or less, and I feel surprisingly good on the fall-away and the rock garden leading down into the trees. I struggle with one or two of the corners, fighting the bike through moon dust that has gotten impossibly deep since the day before. I feel like I have my line choice locked in pretty well and I’m not sure if I’m hitting the turns more aggressively today or if I’m just more tired, but it feels harder to hold on, which is usually an indication that I’m going faster. I’m actually not unhappy with my run so far. Since the close call at the top I feel like I’ve been riding pretty well and carrying good speed through a few very tricky sections, and I am cautiously optimistic as I pop out of the woods and on to the root staircase. I am almost on cruise control through this part of the course. Even though it is widely considered one of the most difficult features on the track, I have had a good line through here all week and it hasn’t given me a single bit of difficulty, so it surprises me when suddenly I find myself cutting wide through the second corner, on the opposite side of the track to where I should be and heading straight for a big stump on the edge of the course. I grab the brakes and try to correct, and my fork compresses against a large standing root mass and pitches the bike forward. Despite my best efforts to save it, momentum works against me and I fly over the bars, tucking and rolling to protect my head while my bike catapults off course and down the hill.
My race is over.
For a moment I am stunned. It is almost like everything goes dim, like being in a room with the sound muted and the lights turned down. I am lying in a crumpled heap on the side of the mountain and instinctively start to conduct a physical self-assessment before attempting to pick myself up. It seems like time slows to a crawl as I go down an internal list of things that hopefully are still working right.
Arms? Check.
Legs? Check?
Neck? Check.
I stand slowly, ignoring the pain in my ribs as I gather my breath. It is then that the soundtrack kicks back in and I become aware of the crowd yelling at me. Italian, German, French, then finally a few words of recognizable English:
“Come on, GO GO GO!!”
The encouragement shocks me back into the present moment but I am still a little disoriented and it takes me a second or two to locate my bike, tangled in the course tape about twenty feet below me. Shaking my head clear, I scramble down to get it but have to spend several more seconds trying to extricate it from the tape. In order to avoid disqualification I must re-enter the course at the same spot I left it, which means climbing back up to the point of my crash. Breathing hard with exertion I try to sprint back up the slope, but by the time I get back to where I need to be I can hear the crowd above me cheering excitedly and I realize that their shouts are not for me.
There is another rider coming. I’ve been caught.
After my crash there is no longer any reasonable possibility I will win, and race etiquette dictates that I let the rider pass in order to give him the best chance possible. Unfortunately, doing so costs me even more time, and by the time I drop in behind him I estimate that I have lost at least 30 seconds. In racing that is an eternity, and I question the value of even finishing the race. Ultimately it just isn’t in me to quit, and I stay within a few bike lengths of the other guy’s rear wheel until disaster strikes again. This time it’s another section I’ve been nailing all week; a four foot rock drop into a right hand corner in a sort of trench filled with rocks and roots. I hit my usual line perfectly but go in a little too hot and clip a tree on the outside left, knocking my bars around as the bike slews towards the tape. I get a foot out and manage to avoid ditching entirely, but my confidence and my flow are completely gone. Just getting the bike going again requires way more effort than it should, and in addition to the expected fatigue setting into my arms and fingers, I have also developed a wicked case of nerves that is making my hands and feet shake uncontrollably.
I do my best to fight it off, trying to force my body to respond the way I want it to. I am still only halfway down and already it is taking all the effort I can muster just to hang on. The battle I am fighting between my head’s desire to keep going and my body’s desire to quit is reaching epic proportions. A single thought appears in my mind like a talisman, and I cling to it in desperation.
“Just get down. Finish this thing.”
I manage to get through the next few parts of the course cleanly, but I know that my speed is nowhere near where I need it to be. I am back to 2-finger braking and monster trucking through sections I should be floating through, but I simply don’t have the energy to attack the terrain the way I need to. My body is winning the argument now, and I am just along for the ride. It seems stupid because I know that for me there is nothing left to race for but pride, but to me that still seems pretty important and I stubbornly tell myself that is no damn way I’m going to quit. I am getting to that finish line, dead or alive.
I push on, riding on the ragged edge of control and exhaustion. Every corner seems impossibly difficult, every rock and root like ramming into Mount Everest. I am three quarters of the way down when I hear the call behind me.
“Rider!”
I’ve been caught again. It’s humiliating but I am well beyond the point of caring. The race itself is almost forgotten; now it’s just me against the mountain in an unspoken battle of wills that I simply refuse to lose. I pull over to the side to let the oncoming rider get by me, but realize quickly that I have done so in a very awkward spot. After he passes I drop in again but have to try and get my feet set quickly before tipping over a rock roll into a tricky right hand turn. The corner is loose and blown out, and I don’t get my feet set quite right on the pedals before hitting the bottom. My weight distribution is all wrong and I lose the front end in the dusty turn, ending up with a foot out trying to tripod down the following chute. It doesn’t work.
At this point I would rather throw my bike into the trees than ride it, but I once again stand up on the pedals and point it downhill. The bottom is so close now I can almost see it, and I dig deep for any remaining strength just to get me the rest of the way. Two more rocky chutes, then the Pippo jump and one last rough, high speed corner. I am so tired that the G forces nearly pull me right off the bike as I try to carve through it. I simply let go down the last straightaway into the finish area, my arms screaming for relief. I cross the line and it’s over. Jerrod, Mel, Derrick, John, Lise, Kevin, and Melanie are all there waiting. My time is terrible but at least I have the satisfaction of knowing that I finished the race – and to my surprise, I’m still not last.
Jerrod has had a similar experience, with a couple of crashes and two more off course situations. He played it safe, choosing to ride a conservative race and finish cleanly. Like me, he ends up well off the podium but comfortably towards the middle of his category. Kevin has chosen to race despite his injury and finishes a respectable 23rd. John and Mel are World Champions, and as the awards ceremony starts I run back to the hotel room to retrieve something I brought along in the unlikely chance it might be needed – a Canadian flag. It might just be the fatigue, but hearing the national anthem play as the red & white is raised into the wind is surprisingly emotional, and watching John and Mel collect their gold medals and rainbow jerseys makes us swell with pride.
Dinner that night is one for the ages. Mel cracks her bottle of champagne and toasts the table. We linger late into the evening re-living the trials and triumphs of the week, savoring the time together while it lasts. In the morning we will all go our separate ways, back to our “normal” lives and away from the circus of the UCI World Masters DHI Championships. It has been an amazing ride that none of us will ever forget, and we are all grateful for the experience.
The next day we rise early, pack the van, and prepare to leave Val di Sole. After some final farewells with Mel, Derrick, John, and Lise, Jerrod and I head down to the finish area to reflect on the past few days. The race results weren’t what either of us wanted, but we both went, and we both finished, and on a track like this one that feels like a massive win in and of itself. It has been a week that has far surpassed all expectation; something that will go down as an event we will tell our kids about for years. Jerrod and I stand there in the dusty grass behind the finish line, the banners and stage cloaked in the dull morning light as the gondola stands motionless overhead, waiting for the days yet to come. In a little less than a week, this track will host the World Championships for the Elite classes, and we will watch on the internet as the pros charge the same track we charged, meet the same obstacles we faced, and come to grief on the same treacherous course that claimed us. Danny Hart, Finn Iles, and Rachel Atherton will find glory there, and many others will not. Manon Carpenter will crash hard on the same corner near the top that almost got me, destroying her collarbone and ultimately ending her career. Although we don’t yet know those results, it is both sobering and inspiring to think that we share some kind of kinship with those riders.
As we leave Val di Sole and drive eastward into the rising sun, we know that both of us will always cherish the memories and friendships we formed here. We came, we saw, we survived, and that’s more than most people can say. And after all, isn’t that what racing is really all about?
