Big Bikes

Root 66 Landmine Classic Marathon

The Shark is Still at the Top of The Food Chain and Oh, The Sweet Irony of Single Speed Mechanicals

As we left Wompatuck on Saturday night after the short track, the rain was coming down so hard we could barely see the road. I foresaw that the course might change character over night. This is a course that when dry and dusty is a bone-shakingly fast. The rocks and roots get wet, and you got yourself a whole different animal. The many moss covered bridges become assassins, waiting for your slightest mistake, ready to take you out. Touch your brakes and your face will be touching the ground real quick.

I’d foregone the series points race, at great risk to my lead to do the 50 mile marathon in preparation for the VT50 in a few weeks. Both the guys who could take the series lead away from me showed up. Luckily (for me) an on form Brian Hughes stole a couple points by taking the win in the Pro/Semi-Pro XC race. Nice one Brian!

The Marathon was broken up by age class, me just squeaking into the younger 12-34 age slot. Fisher 29er Crew member Michael Patrick had negotiated a spot in that group as well despite his slightly more advanced age. He just wanted to be in the fast group is all, I was happy for the company.

We started out on the fire road chute to the singletrack, it’s a long one, a place where in years past I have been dropped like a pissing toad due to my little gear on the SS. This year I was running a 33 X 16, so after an early attempt at the hole shot by a deftly wheelie-ing Bike Barn rider I took up the lead. Spinning madly down the road, waiting for someone to come around, I’d look back periodically, shrug, and then continue my 180 RPM pace making. We came into a muddy, rocky section which spanned a hundred yards or so, I hovered above my saddle, hammering through, a gapped formed. I looked back as I started up the little climb to the single track hole shot, two guys had separated themselves from the pack, Tom Gosselin from I.F. and Michael Patrick.


On Saturday, after the short track some really cool guy in a really cool SUV gunned it through the grass parking area, sending up rooster tails of mud and tearing the place up. This was right in front of representatives of The DCR and NEMBA. Nice one douche bag. Just so you know, everyone watching your sick moves agreed that you were a raging A-Hole. As a result Cathy Rowell and some others had to push this Westfalia out of the bog you created, you winner.

The first section of trail was a real wake up call. The rocks were bright green and the dirt in-between was greasy as a bag of apple cider donuts. I got knocked off and couldn’t get my rhythm back with my slightly large gear. Mike, spun through, cleaning a lot more stuff than me, looking smooth. He was a hold out on the 29er thing, but his Superfly seems to work for him, especially in the tight, east coast, slow speed, rocky weirdness. I was running OK though, don’t usually feel good getting off the bike, but that’s been changing recently. Too bad I’m retiring from ‘Cross. Ha!

Tommy Gosselin was riding strong but the tech stuff caught up with him and Mike and I rode away. For the next couple hours we were on a mean group ride. Mike had ridden the course so he helped keep me from riding off into the void, several times, as I spaced out, thinking about how there was free coffee back the start/finish…how long would it take me to duck off course and grab some? The mental alertness I would gain might be worth it, might prevent me from riding directly into trees so often as I tried to hold up my end of the conversation. I realized that my rear bottle had ejected, this could be bad considering I had just one more large bottle and a small one stashed in my jersey pocket. I avoid Camelbak type systems whenever possible. They screw up my equilibrium and hurt my rickety back too much. Thankfully the feedzone where Colin had placed my bottles was at mile 21, not at the start/finish, so just as I was smacking my dry lips and wondering when I was going to start cramping, we came upon the zone and I got my drink on. My rear bottle would eject again, but I would stop to pick it up and a magnanimous Michael Patrick would sit up and wait for me to get sorted out.

Not too far into the first lap Mark McCormack came by going wicked f-in fast, we tried to stay on him but he was just blazing on the open stuff. He was also riding the tech stuff well, which for some reason I thought was his Achilles heal, not today, his game was tight. Once he was out of sight, we backed off a bit, hoping he was going too hard to sustain to the end. Right, cuz The Shark is a total rookie. Pff!

I opted to throw a 2.1 Jones ACX on the front just before the start. For a 50 miler, this race is ROUGH. I kept the super light and fast Jones XR 1.8 on the rear though, making my bike effectively a 28.5...er...9er. Felt good, and I can't believe the abuse that little tire took out there.

A while after McCormack passed us, Greg The Leg, came up and joined the group, riding real strong on his crazy Lefty, Ti I.F.. Shortly after he began driving the pace at the front he clipped a pedal and wound up dislodging his cleat from his shoe. He’d hobble through the remainder of the lap, opting to abandon before lap two. Earlier that day, as we loaded the car Monty decided to use my pink, SSWC07 Scotland shirt as a rag to wipe off his disc rotors...the fact that I am an evil bike mechanic and his cleat fell out were entirely unrelated. Two people reading, don't tell Greg that I sabotaged him by loosening his cleat bolts. Thanks two people.

The mechanicals began at the end of the first lap, my chain started dropping at weird times, not under pressure, just coasting on not so rough downhills. I could see that a good wave had developed in my 33t stainless Surly chainring. Baffling. I don’t think I hit it on anything and after the day prior’s issues I was curious what the hell was going on down there. Bent spider? I’ll put the calipers on it tomorrow and figure it out. Things went bad to worse there, with an eventual full on explosion under load. At this point I had begun to put a gap on Mike, and was thinking I should try to keep it, although his company was appreciated on a long ride like this. I tried to throw the chain back on and get going again, but it was all f-ed up, the ring was all sorts of waffled. I scoured the ground for a cave man ball peen hammer, but no luck, I had to hike along for a minute just to find a rock. Stupid rocks, you were around when I was bouncing off you like a pin ball a few moments ago, now I need you and you’re nowhere to be found. I found one eventually and tried to reform this hunk of wiggly steel back into a chainring. It was way harder than I expected, minutes were elapsing, hope was waning, I was performing a kind of mechanical Muay-Thai on my bike: smash with rock, kick with foot, flip bike, kick, hit, scream, swear, repeat. I told Mike when he passed I was going Paul Simoes on the shit (Paul likes to swear at his bike…a lot).

At the point when I was really thinking about walking out, I realized that no one had come by yet, weird, we must have had a good gap. A couple more random whacks and the chain was turning with minimal protest. A few pops here and there, but I got back on the bike and with a couple good, swift kicks to the ring I was pedaling gingerly along. When I came to the conclusion that the chain would hold I went nuts, freakin’ nuts, taking it up to XC pace, then ‘Cross pace, then short track pace, then I just snorted an Eight-Ball of Meth and robbed a 7-Eleven at gun point, stole a twelve year old’s huffy and the cops are chasing me pace.

The chain dropped periodically, I’d scream “you have got to be f-ing k-ding me!” put it back on and then dare it to come off while I was torquing hard on an uphill, threatening my bike with horrible things if it did so. I held out hope that I’d see Mike again, but we had been riding so close all day, I seriously doubted I could close down four or five minutes on him after what happened. I was right, I would never see him again, but I would go as hard as I could for the last couple hours, railing the technical singetrack, and trying to clean as many of the crazy rock gardens as possible. I would come in shelled, 100%, but with the confidence that I can drive myself into the ground for over 4 1/2 hours, which is good seeing as the 50 is right around the corner.

Result: 3rd overall in the Marathon behind Michael Patrick and Mark McCormack, 2nd in my category. Time: 4:41:56, which is longer than my Vermont 50 time from last year despite the fact that this race had next to no climbing. This is a bad Mo Fo of a race and I recommend it to anyone who wants to come check out some legit east coast riding and racing. It’s held in conjunction with Nemba Fest every year and camping is encouraged, it’s right outside of Boston and even accessible by ferry from downtown (if you like pedaling your bike a bit).