Our race results are always posted on our website under Results. However, occasionally, a rider might write a personal race summary and post it to their own social media. In this case, Chris Zealand (46-50 intermediate) did just that, reflecting on our local single from Saturday, November 23, 2019. He has graciously permitted NOVA BMX to reproduce it on our website. We hope you enjoy it!

Race Report: Tough Mudder

By Chris Zealand

I don’t write race reports much these days, but today reminded me of why I love BMX and why it’s worth showing up, again and again. So with apologies to Herman Melville, I offer this modest little account …

Last year, to my surprise, I won an award at the NOVA BMX Banquet called the Iron Man. The Iron Man and Iron Woman awards go to the racers who participate in the most races at the track.

"I see,” you’re thinking. “It's an elaborate participation trophy."

Maybe that’s one way to look at it. It's true the award doesn't take into account how you finished at the races. Iron Man is for the one who shows up, not necessarily for the one who wins. And, full disclosure, I did precious little winning last year.

But showing up is not nothing. In fact, it's a prerequisite to achieving anything. I used to go to a gym with a sign on the door that read, "Showing up is half the battle." There is a lot of truth to that sign.

This year I've been self-consciously chasing the Iron Man, doing whatever is necessary to make every race at NOVA BMX. Maybe I'm the only one who even cares about it, although looking at some of these 5- and 6-year-old regulars, maybe not. Nevertheless, as I get older, I'm starting to realize that it takes a lot of determination to keep showing up, ESPECIALLY when you don't often win.

So my main BMX goal for 2019 was to defend my Iron Man title. And in doing that, I wanted to do more than just be there to bump the gate. I wanted do justice to every race. The Iron Man, after all, is still about RACING.

The season is long, stretching from March to December. And our TO, Fredy Caceres, is a conscientious man; he does not cancel races lightly. By year's end, we will have raced in just about every kind of punishing weather, or weather emergency, that Mother Nature can throw at us. And that takes a toll on a body soon to be beginning its 50th year.

Not to mention, life throws curveballs at you. As much as I might wish BMX were always my first and highest priority, that is not the case. Faithfully attending several dozen races over 9 months, sometimes multiple races in one week, really is a pretty big deal.

Last week, for example, I was suffering from a cold when Saturday rolled around. The conditions weren't terrible. Temperatures were in the 40s and rose over the course of the race. But there was a stiff wind, and a gust caught me right when I was coming out of the gate in the main. It felt like I used every bit of energy I had left just finishing that lap. I had plans for the rest of the day, but all I could do by the time I got home was sit in a chair and drink tea.

After that, the cold fulminated into what felt, by Monday morning, like certain death.

"Stupid Ironman," I thought more than once this past week. I knew I should have rested last Saturday. This title defense was killing me.

I don’t get colds very often, but this one was bad. Like sleeping-sitting-up-so-you-don’t-stop-breathing bad.

All that lasted until this morning, that wonderful kind of morning when you realize that you've turned a corner on an illness you weren't sure you were going to survive. With the cool mist humidifier blowing in my face and jug of Vic’s Vapor Rub applied to my chest and throat, I got a good night's sleep in the recliner, maybe the first in a week.

I even had a weirdly encouraging dream. I was at a BMX track that had installed what looked like a big air purifier. That gizmo sucked up any negative vibes and captured them in a holding tank. The captured vibes looked and smelled like frothing sewage. Then the TO just took the tank and poured its contents down a sewer grate. It was a super chill dream track.

But today was also Saturday, race day. I would have to risk my fragile health … again.

Or maybe not. After all, it had rained hard half the day yesterday. And there was frost on the car windows. And the sky was a slate gray, with rain predicted in the afternoon.

Nevertheless, the word came down at 9:30 via the Rained Out messaging app: "The track is a bit soft, but we are racing. ... bring firewood!

Stupid Ironman.

Running late, the boy and I scrambled to get ready and get to the track. When I started the car, I saw the gas light and remembered that I had driven about 30 miles since it had come on the day before as I drove to work. But we also had to pick up our teammate, Sierra "Hollywood" McDaniel. Stopping for gas would probably doom any chance we would have for warm-ups. And with the weather a damp 42 degrees, even the teenagers would need a good warm-up.

I decided we would just have to chance it.

But traffic was mercifully light, and we got to the track with about 25 minutes left in practice. Sierra had already warned us that "a little soft" in her father’s vernacular actually meant "very muddy." Despite the best efforts of the grounds crew, we could see thick mud caked to the tires of the bikes coming off the track.

Stupid Ironman.

Of all track conditions, mud is the one I like least. Muddy conditions favor powerful riders, which I'm not. They also disfavor guys who use a lot of pumping to gain track speed, which I do. They make bike handling unpredictable and potentially hazardous for everyone. Snapping out of the gate, usually something I can use to my advantage, is all but impossible. And mud necessitates cleaning the bikes, something that triggers my OCD.

But I figured it would probably be a light crowd, and I would probably be classed with the Experts. That would mean even if lost, I'd be so far behind I could just concentrate on not falling off my bike, rather than putting in the really tough effort necessary in close race.

I did have time for about 4 practice laps, and none of them gave me confidence I would have a good day. The track, which had been groomed and rolled as well as it could be, was still quite muddy. There was nothing that could be done about that. I tried snapping one gate and almost went over the bars when my rear wheel spun out. After the week I just had, I felt like I didn’t have the strength – physical or psychological – to fight the track conditions.

Then motos were posted. First place in my group was basically a forgone conclusion with the speedy Gilberto DeLeon, a 41-45 Expert, in the mix. But my other two competitors were Michael Talley and Kerry George, 2 strong 46-50 riders with good power and pull on the first straight. It would be the furthest thing from an easy day, and I’d be fighting hard just to transfer.

Stupid Ironman.

Sure enough, I did not get off to an auspicious start. I had Gate 5 in the first round, with fast riders on both sides of me. Still dubious about that spinout, I gingerly eased out of the gate, which instantly consigned me to last place. Gilberto was quickly gone, but Michael was really moving, too. If Michael had any doubts about the gate or track conditions, he wasn’t showing them. Kerry was also pouring it on, and I was struggling to stay within a bike length of Kerry all the way through the second turn.

During my Ironman chase, I’ve raced NOVA BMX a LOT. I’ve got the third straight, a fast downhill rhythm section, dialed-in pretty well. If I need to make up time in a race, that’s usually where I can do it.

I did gain a little bit on Kerry, but Michael was on a mission and was well into the final turn just as Kerry and I were negotiating the final obstacle before entering the turn. Gilberto had already nabbed the first transfer spot, but I figured I should still push a little just to see if I had anything in my legs at all.

I managed to get the inside line entering the turn and heard Fredy announce over the PA, “Oooh, Zealand gives George the elbow.” I hope that wasn’t literally true, but I did push him up on the berm a little and got position in the turn. But Kerry wasn’t done, and it was still a drag race to the line, with nothing riding on the outcome other than maybe a little morale boost heading into the next, crucial transfer round. I’m not even sure who between me and Kerry crossed the line first, but Michael beat us both soundly.

Nevertheless, the close racing with Kerry had got my blood flowing, and I was starting to get into the spirit of making a go of it.

Stupid … me for ever doubting that title defense would be a good idea.

Meanwhile, I had been wondering this whole time how Michael had managed to keep his tires so clean. Gentlemen that he is, he volunteered the information as he saw me futilely running my tire against a push broom between the heats. “I ride slowly through the puddles on the blacktop,” he said. “Works pretty well.” A different sort of guy might have kept that information to himself in what could be a close race. But even the competitive imperatives of BMX do not supersede Michael Talley’s essential good nature.

The next round I was in Gate 1. Michael, I think, was all the way over in 6, with Kerry somewhere between us. With my tires now clean, I thought I would try giving it a little more juice out of the gate. I did, but without much effect. Michael easily got the hole shot and was headed for an unobstructed line through the turn. Kerry, meanwhile, was charging hard on my outside, and we entered the turn at roughly the same time, he slightly ahead, but I the inside. We were pretty much shoulder to shoulder at the turn’s apex.

Normally I could have carved the line I needed for that pass without much trouble, but with mud from the first straight caked to my tire, I didn’t have the confidence. I reached for the brake lever, and I could almost swear I saw Kerry smiling in my peripheral vision.

Michael and Kerry both exited the turn before me, and with my finger still lingering near the stupid brake lever, I heard myself say, “Damn it!’ I was as mad about the work I would have to put in for the rest of the lap as I was about possibly losing the transfer.

I at least held my ground on the second straight, but Michael and Kerry both made it through Turn Two head of me. Michael was riding like a man possessed, and it was clear he was on his way to winning the lap. My only shot, I understood, was to make up ground on the rhythm section and make my move in the last turn.

Kerry had left a little room on the inside (a very little room), but it was my only chance. Pumping through the mud for all I was worth, I drew up to the inside of Kerry going into the turn, just barely getting my wheel about as far as his bottom bracket.

I honestly didn’t have time to be as scared as the situation probably warranted. I was about to attempt a very tight inside pass on a bigger, stronger rider through a close-radius turn at full speed with uncertain tire traction. My last thought heading into the turn was that Kerry is a good bike rider and a prudent person. If we made it through the turn, it would be those qualities of his to thank.

I’m not quite sure what happened next, except that I heard a loud exclamation from Fredy through the PA system, and no one crashed. I also saw that I had a clear shot at the last straight, and I put everything I could into taking advantage of it.

And so the final transfer would be mine. Kerry and I both crossed the finish like giddy little kids, fist bumping and awkwardly half-hugging one another. A near death experience like that brings men closer together. I’m pretty sure Kerry enjoyed it as much as I did.

I also fist-bumped Michael, who was bent over his bars breathing heavily. He just ridden two laps at full steam through tough conditions. I began to wonder if it had taken a toll.

I used the Talley technique to clean my tires and rolled back and forth through the pits. I was trying not to overthink things. Michael has the edge in power and pull on the first straight. I usually have a slight edge in track speed. But with the track conditions so slow, and the mud rewarding horsepower, it was going to be a very tough race. Michael had left me in the dust the past two laps.

But I could also see that Michael had put forth maximal effort in those laps. That’s usually my MO in a BMX race, too. I just ride each lap as hard as I can, whether or not I’m competitive for the transfer. Unusually for me, however, I felt like I still had a little juice going into today’s main. I had been purposely cautious in the gate in the first lap, and the close racing with Kerry during both laps had been invigorating.

When the lane assignments were called for the main, I drew Gate 5, and Michael was in 8. That was a major stroke of good fortune for me. Gilberto was on the inside, almost certainly poised for an easy win.

As we rolled up in staging, Michael said that his legs were shot. This, of course, is the way BMX racers talk to each other. Usually it’s the stuff of Jedi mind tricks.

But I could see from the pained look of resignation on Michael’s face that he might have been serious. Nevertheless, I have raced Michael when he’s injured, when he’s tired, and when he’s claiming he’s just there to get in some laps. I knew better than to count him out.

As the moto before ours took off, Michael also remarked that the track was looking faster.

The … track … is … looking … faster, I thought.

He’s right!

I realized my only chance was to snap out of the gate as hard as I could to beat or at least stay with Michael through the first turn. Anything less than that, and I was likely a goner. He had been too strong all day, and I knew he wasn’t going to throw in the towel, no matter how tired he was. Plus, I was concerned I had used up my racer’s nine lives in the corners contending with Kerry in the motos.

I don’t really remember much about the start other than that it seemed like a quick gate and that I got the snap I wanted. My tires held, and I opened the throttle as wide as I could. I was fixated on the turn and didn’t see Michael, but I knew he was close.

I found out how close as we came together over the last obstacle going into the first turn. THIS TIME, I told myself, you HAVE to carve hard. So I tried doing just that, and I heard what sounded like a frustrated exclamation from Michael.

That was exactly the encouragement I needed, and I added my own tough love positive self-talk as I came out of the turn in second place: Pedal, you bastard! PEDAL!

There was no relaxing for the rest of the lap. I felt like a wildebeest making a break from the watering hole to the tree line with the lion hot on my heels. The track actually did seem faster, or maybe it was the adrenaline. I pumped like a madman on the third straight and entered the final turn still in the clear. Gilberto was just about finishing the race in first at that point, but I couldn’t see Michael. I could only assume he was RIGHT ON ME.

But on this day, at least, the wildebeest successfully escaped to the tree line. After the race, Michael and I were BOTH bent over bars gasping for breath. He was gracious as always. But I knew I’d see that lion again, probably sooner rather than later.

The race I wanted to attend the least, one of the few I had hoped would be cancelled, turned out to be one of the most fun I had raced all season. It was everything I love about BMX: camaraderie, close racing on the track, digging deep, being forced to ride harder than I wanted to or thought I could, being with buddies who were bringing out the best in each other, successfully grappling with fears and doubt. And then leaving under my own power, worn out but physically intact.

The boy also raced well, despite his griping about the conditions, notching a hard-fought second place.

I hope everybody who was at NOVA BMX today felt the same way and had as much fun as I did. The atmosphere at the track actually did suck the bad vibes right out of me and in effect flushed them down the sewer.

Congratulations to Gilberto on the win, and many thanks to the diehard crew at NOVA for putting on another great show with characteristic good humor. Thanks also to Michael and Kerry for the awesome racing and for putting up with my exuberance in the corners.

There are two, maybe three, more races left in the season at NOVA. Anything could happen, and I’m not taking anything for granted. But if I get through them and achieve my goal of defending the Iron Man, it will be days like this that I’ll remember the most, the days when even though I didn’t win, I still felt like I earned it. Those are also the days I’ll remember when the track closes for the season and the long slog through the off-season begins, a time when we hold tight to the promise of a new season in March.

Stupid winter.