This blog has been moved!

Hi everyone!
I've started a new blog location here.
My website is also newly redesigned, so check it out!
www.jessicasingerman.com

Weekend in Dutch Wonderland

It hurt. That is what first comes to mind when I think back to yesterday’s race, Wonderland Cyclocross Race. There was nothing wonderous about it. I decided to ride my newly-build single speed cross bike for a race, and paid dearly for it. And every lap that I passed the pit, I thought: “Just switch the bike for the geared bike. Just do it, and everything will be better, and easier.” But I didn’t.

It all started on Friday night, as Tim and I drove to his parents’ home in E-town to spend the weekend. About 10 minutes from pulling into their driveway, we both saw a cream-colored blob fall towards us, and then heard a thunk on the roof of the car. I asked him if he’d seen what it was, but he hadn’t seemed to notice anything. When we arrived to the house, there was a small rodent attached to the rear wheel of my single-speed cross bike. This very small animal was sitting with its back to the front of the bike, on the top of the wheel, with his back to the bike frame, and tightly clasping the wheel with its little paws. Its moon-shaped eyes were unflinching wide, and he was completely motionless. Upon closer inspection, we detected flaps of skin under its arms, and a squirrel-like tail, although much smaller. It was a flying squirrel! We left the bikes on the roof of the car for the night, not wanting to scare him any more, and hoped he was all right.

The next morning, we awoke at seven, to a bright, sunny, crisp fall day. What a treat to be able to get out of bed so late on a race morning! Today’s race was in Lancaster, only 45 minutes from E-town. We had a leisurely breakfast, and packed ourselves into the car to head out to the race. I was really excited to go to a small local race because these are typically very laid back with a grass-roots feel--what cyclocross is at the core. This was also the first time for this race, so everyone was looking forward to riding a new course.

After registering, Tim and I walked the course, each lap consisting of the following:

Six (6!) forced dismounts:
3 sets of barriers
2 smaller barriers followed by steep run-ups, the second of which was sickeningly long
1 deep sand pit

1 long off-camber stretch
1 long series of sweeping switchbacks downhill
1 shorter but much more technical series of downhill switchbacks
A couple of short climbs
1 longer grueling climb
1 long power-sucking lap around a random field

Our race had us do this six times. That means I had to do thirty-six, yes thirty-six, flying dismounts and remounts during this race. Just the thought of that makes me hurt.

To make a long story short, as soon as the gun went off, Nikki and I went as hard as we could and raced our little hearts out during the entire duration of the race, both of us unrelenting in our attempts to lose the other, but I was downright hurting. This race hurt more than any other race of the year so far. Already by half-way through the first lap, my thighs did not feel right. They felt heavy. I couldn’t turn the pedals as quickly as usual. I felt sluggish. Every lap I told myself that I was opening up, that the next lap would be easier, but it didn’t, and I just felt like I -for sure- would get sick at the end of this race. That I would finally lose the sports drink and the gu and the oatmeal and the eggs, right there in front of the scoring tent. We went on, lap after lap, the race took forever… “Who said this was fun?” Nikki asked.

On our 5th lap, I noticed that Nikki seemed especially tired as her handling over the barriers got a little sloppy, so I thought that I would take another chance and really try to lose her on the long flat loop on the backside of the course. We made it over the barriers and back onto our bikes, and as soon as we touched the short asphalt section, I hit it as hard as I could, and then could just feel myself slowing on the grass, even though I pushed and pushed. And I glanced over my shoulder and there she was. I couldn’t make it stick. In my moment of desperation, I let out a holler of pain and frustration, “Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!” And as she calmly worked her way around me, I got back on her wheel, tail between my legs.

Towards the end of this lap, as we came onto the last set of barriers, Tim yelled, “Just 30 more seconds!” and I panicked because I thought we had one more lap left. I mustered up the strength to pass Nicki in the last stretch, but as we passed the scoring tent, the officials were silent. We did have one more lap! I said something about wanting to kill Tim as soon as we finished this painfest, Nikki agreed to help me, and we went for another lap.

Nikki was clearly stronger than me today, and I knew it as we worked our way through our last lap. As we came around the back end, I racked my brain trying to come up with a plan to win. At the top of the run-up, I would remount and attack right there, when we are completely spent from the run. And then I would excruciatingly hurt for the last minute or two, but I would win.

As soon as we hit the half-way point of that god-forsaken run-up, the harsh reality hit me that my plan would not be carried out. With the lactic acid that flooded my thighs came the deluge of regret. Today Nikki was simply stronger, and I would not win this race. She finished two seconds faster, and as I crossed the line, I went towards her, and she held out her hand, and we hugged as we gasped for air. It was a good race, and we laughed as we rode away for another lap and cooled down.




While we were out there suffering, the spectators, apparently oblivious to the carnage, enjoyed mocha latte's.





After the race, Jim, Lin, Tim, and I went to "Art on the Farm," a weekend-long event where local fine artists and artisans take over an inactive farm to present their work. While we enjoyed some freshly made crepes there, this gentleman slowly walked around the farm while playing his bagpipes for us. I caught him trying to warm his hands between sets, and he posed for me.





That night, Tim and I went to a party at Howard's place, where a few of the guys made an enormous bonfire. Howard always has a bonfire at his parties. Our whole mountain bike team got together to give him a beer meister with a titanium engraved handle one of the guys made. Howard, our team manager, and manager of Bike Line in Newark, Delaware, is the reason we had such a good racing season this year, and he is THE man. I worked for him at the shop for a couple of years before moving to Philly. I miss him.


Today, we went for a hike on some rails-to-trails, and we met a few friends:









This wooly worm making his way across a road towards an old mill











Barbie, a well-behaved quarter horse











Two friendly pooches










Some milk-thistle hiding along the side of a small trail







And I took this self-portrait

Beacon 'Cross Race

This is a play by play of the Beacon 'Cross race from last Sunday-

lap 1
The gun fires and Nikki and I are in the front. She is to my right and we are touching shoulders. I try not to push her off the road, but she is in my way to get the line I want in turn 1 to the right onto the double track. I manage to get in front and she is hot on my tail. Several turns later, a junior comes around me to the right, and rather than look beyond him to the course, my eyes rest on him and I stupidly follow him as he mistakenly makes to the left rather than right into a right-hand turn. We slam on the brakes and make a hard right, Nikki is back and passes me on the right – dammit! We gun it through the woods and down the gravel hill to the beach. We are running at the same pace now and then turn right, bounding up the stairs back onto the sandy tarmac. We jump on our bikes and I am chasing her through the grass as we make our way across quickly varying surfaces until we hit the sand hill. We both accelerate into it, knowing that without enough momentum we will not make it through the deep sand, and just as we begin to climb, we run into some C-category men who have fallen victim to the sand hill. I stumble off my bike. Nikki falters too, but I will not let her stay in front! I pick up my bike and sprint up the hill. Sally flies by me up the climb, as she was able to stay on the bike. Man, she looks really strong–she quickly gains about 10 yards on me by the time I remount the bike and get back into it. I need to catch her and pass her quickly, but she apparently has rockets up her ass, and I can’t bridge the gap just yet. We snake through the slippery corners and make our way to the sand pit, which is deep and treacherous. I jam on the pedals and almost make it across the pit, but a couple of feet from the end, my front wheel catches and as I quickly try to dismount, but my right short leg gets caught on the saddle! #$%@#^$%^
I fall on my left side and can’t unclip to save my life. I am wildly contorting myself to move at once out from under the bike and forward, and I lose precious time as Sally gets away and Nikki is gaining on me!!! I run up, jump on and try to make it up the steep hill but am stopped midway by fallen riders. I run past them, jump back on the bike and bomb downhill to the base of the amphitheatre of pain. Throw the bike on my shoulder and make it up the towering amphitheatre steps as quickly as I can. Make it around the last few turns of the lap and then up the road–I sprint to try to catch Sally.

lap 2
We make a right back into the woods and I am gaining on her fast. I catch her right before the first left sandy turn, take the best line on the inside, and inadvertently cut her off as I come out of the turn. I slow down way too much through the sand, and have to pound on the pedals to accelerate once again. In doing so, I manage to drop her! This is it. I now have to increase whatever gap I have on them as much as possible to give me some margin for anything that could happen… I am going hard and fairly smoothly now, although not so great through the corners… but anyhow, feeling good on the straight sections…


end of lap 3 and lap 4:
I glance over my shoulder as I come out of the sharp turn back onto the road, and damn, I see a ponytail! I do a double take–yes, it is a girl. I don’t recognize her. I sprint up the hill and duck back onto the double track. I am pedaling furiously now, because dammit, I don’t want to lose in the last lap! I don’t look behind me. If she catches me now, then she deserves it, because I’m going hard. I get to the deep gravel downhill to the beach, and my cornering has suddenly become even worse than before, as I swerve way out before turning onto the gravel. But I manage to hold my line down the hill and make it for one more run on the sand. I sprint, holding my bike by the top tube rather than shouldering it, partly as an experiment, partly because I am tired. The experiment fails as I realize that the bike is not high enough to neatly clear the high stairs leaving the beach. I clumsily get over them, and remount the bike. I manage to finish the rest of the course rather cleanly, and when I get to the final stretch on the road, I sprint to the finish line. I cross it- I am feeling a bit sick. But I won. I got a 45 second gap on the second place girl.

This is what you feel like after you do a cross race.











The weekend before was the opening of the Verge Mid Atlantic Series, and two of the coolest races on the calendar, Granogue and Wissahickon drew huge crowds. I noticed an abundance of really cute dogs such as this one.

Surviving Iron Cross IV

This is my story of surviving the Iron Cross, or “America’s Longest Cyclo-Cross Race”

As I lay here slowly recovering from an epic weekend of racing, I am constantly reminded of Sunday’s race every time I move and feel one of the myriad of cuts and bruises covering my battered body.

Saturday’s race, the Iron Cross Lite, was uneventful in retrospect. At the time, I felt good about having raced strong, finishing in 5th place after battling back and forth with the women on that day’s course. Everyone out there raced well, and it was tough to pass anyone and put a gap on them, as everyone kept fighting again and again. I was able to attack repeatedly though, and got stronger as the race went on. For this, I am happy.

Sunday’s race however, the infamous Iron Cross, eventually eclipsed any of this, as a concoction of dirt, rocks, blood, adrenaline, and fear became my reality for the 6 hours and 45 minutes of pain that was the race.

At our starting time of 9 am, it was 25 degrees in Michaux State Park. We went off after the men, and I began passing a good number of riders as I got into a rhythm. A couple of women passed me on a road section, and I jumped on their wheel. They slowed quite a bit as we changed terrain onto a gravel road covered with fallen leaves, and I passed them, wanting to keep the pace they had set before. This road gave way to a section of deep sand, and I was grateful to be on my own there as it was near impossible to keep a straight line, and the bike kept trying to lay horizontal. I kept a pretty good clip, caught up to a very tall lanky woman on a mountain bike, and as I passed her on a double track section, she caught on to my wheel. We eventually hit a really steep gravel downhill, and I bombed down, made a quick left turn, and followed the gravel until we hit the first long road section. It felt good to be on smooth terrain, and I again found a nice rhythm for myself. After a few rollers, I passed the tall woman on the mountain bike again. I was perplexed since I never saw her pass me after I first saw her, but let it go and regained my focus as the road continued.

At a left turn back into the woods, a man yelled that I was “like in fifth place”, so I felt pretty good and decided to definitely keep up my pace. We hit a really technical, pure Michaux rocky section, and I wished I had my mountain bike as we started to negotiate the first rocky descent. I was having trouble with my rear brake, and lost control of my bike for the first time, endo-ing on a large log and landing on my right side, still attached to the pedals. The rider behind me pulled up my bike, helping me unclip, a stream of curses came from my mouth, and I quickly got up to continue. It was mostly downhill out of this section, so having lost trust in myself and my bike, I shouldered the bike, and ran over the rocks until I could ride again. During the time that I fell and started running, a small group of women passed me, and as I was determined to catch them, I began an unrelenting chase. For the next few hours, I rode as hard as I could, not stopping at check-points, and passing a few women on the way.

We eventually hit a “run-up” so steep that all of us were forced to move up at snail’s pace, bikes on our backs, using our free hand to help hold ourselves onto a dirt and rock face that would already be difficult to ascend bike-free and wearing hiking boots rather than mountain bike shoes. I am not sure how long it took to clear this seemingly vertical wall of pain, but it certainly was not a “run-up” and it took what felt like an eternity. I think that in my agony I may have even cried for mercy. Reaching the top rewarded us with a panoramic view of the surrounding countryside, and in my feverish chase, I enjoyed it for all of a second as I jumped on my bike and began a downhill through deep sand that gave way to another grueling “run-up”. This was thankfully not as steep as the previous one, but relentless as well with its rocks, gravel, and sand that made it demanding to even find purchase on its uneven surface. Miles later of steep ascents and crazy descents, and we hit a climb so long that I thought I would be sick. But I again found a rhythm, slow as it was, and managed to pass quite a few riders during the struggle up.

The climb eventually gave way to a descent so sickeningly steep that I yearned for the climb, and on this screaming gravel dive through the landscape, my rear brakes got harder and harder to squeeze, until I lost control of my bike yet again, going down in a frenzy of scattered gravel and f-bombs.

This time, I was really shaken up since I was rolling rather fast when I fell, and I managed to rake the entire left side of my body along the gravel and thankfully, a bit of grass. I took stock of where I might be injured as I got up, but couldn’t feel much with the adrenaline streaming through my blood. I looked down at my bike and saw that the stem and brake hoods were crooked from the impact of the crash. I tried to straighten them but couldn’t do so without the help of my multi tool. Even so, I could only straighten the stem, and in my exhaustion couldn’t remember where the screws for the brake levers were. I started running down, and thankfully a bearded Wissahickon rider stopped and forced the brakes back to position. As I hyperventilated from the emotion, and thanked him between gulps of air, he rode off, and I was faced with miles more of the steepest descents I’d ever ridden. My confidence was shot, and although I tried to talk myself into riding down again, it was useless, and I ran the rest of the way down, afraid of losing control yet again. I had been lucky thus far, but did not want to fall again and hurt myself worse. We continued through varied terrain as my push to finish well was shattered. Survival became more significant, and at the last check-point, I decided to stop and refuel. I inhaled a cookie and drowned my disappointment with two cups of potassium drink, and trudged on.

After several stream crossings, while negotiating through some technical rocky single track, my bike eventually decided that it had had enough and promptly self destructed. It gave me warning in the manner of the entire drive train freezing on me for no apparent reason, and just when I thought I could remount and pedal, the rear derailleur launched itself forward, wrapping the chain around the frame and wedging itself into my wheel. The derailleur hanger had snapped and a link on the chain had burst. I couldn’t even roll the bike. The only glimpse of light I can see in this as I look back is that my bike gave up before I did. And all this at about 6 miles from the finish in a 60 plus mile race.

So I shouldered the bike again and made my way up a steep rock-laden hill until I found myself in a sunny landscape completely foreign to its surroundings with its dry sand and rock. It suddenly felt a bit like desert, and I decided to stop and make the most of this warm light in the way of fixing my steed. I first cut my chain with the tool I borrowed from Tim, having forgotten my own chain tool. I then loosened the derailleur and zip-tied it to the frame. I then spent maybe half an hour, 45 min, or an hour- I have no idea- trying to find the “magic” gear to make a single speed out of this bike. A very kind racer, Nick, stopped to help, but neither one of us could manage to close the chain in our nutrient-deprived, dehydrated, just plain exhausted states. I jammed the lifeless chain bits in my back pocket and started up the next climb, discouraged, crying-laughing, as Nick made small talk with me, and kindly tried to get my mind off my failing bike. At the top of the hill, he went off, and I began running the last 6 miles of the race. These last few miles were a hilarious combination of walk/running while pushing my chainless excuse for a bike, and coasting down hills on said bike.

I made it back to the last barriers at the finish line at the same time as two people on a tandem, and we laughed as we sprinted across the line. I am not sure who won, but I didn’t really care, and as a girl handed me my finishing socks, the announcer said something about my chainless bike, and people congratulated me for finishing without a chain. I was just happy to finish.