For my 54th Christmas my son and daughter-in-law gave me my entry to the Sea Otter Classic Cross Country MTB race to be held at Laguna Seca, California on March 23, 1997. Needless to say, I was delighted. A week later I was diagnosed as having diverticulitis, a really nasty gastro-intestinal problem typified by severe abdominal pain. I was put on a liquid diet for two days, given mega antibiotics for ten days and forbidden by my Doc from my long planned cross country skiing trip. I was given a clean bill of health a month later, along with permission to participate in the race. Unfortunately, the antibiotics messed up my innards to the point where I was wondering if I could make it through the race without making an emergency #2 stop. Two weeks before the race, I took my bike down and had it tuned up. When I got it back, it shifted so sweetly that I could hardly believe it. A few days later I ran an errand which entailed a street ride after dark, and I NEVER street ride. In the gloom, I pegged a 6 inch curb and launched! I was only a little scuffed up but I broke my bars. My replacements arrived three days later and I found myself haveing to remove the rapid fire pods to gain access to the brake lever screws. Upon reassembly, I managed to get the chain to move to all the rings, but with a lot of clicking and clanking that wasn't there before. I didn't have time for another professional tune-up, so I decided I could live with it. Race day finally arrived and my son and I got there early enough to get in the fourth row of the first parking lot, right across from the start/finish line. Had I checked, I would have realized that I had lost about 8 of my 175 pounds in the past month, which probably would explain my lack of energy and stamina. My normal weekend ride is ten miles with about a 1500 foot gain/loss which I normally knock out in a bit under two hours. I've done the Treez 'n' Breeze in Davenport the last three years in about 2 hours so I figured I could do the 16 miles, 2300 foot gain/loss in about three hours flat. The 55+ beginners lined up about an hour and three after the 19-25 sports took off, and one of the old boys told me he normally did it in about 1:45, so I'm thinking, maybe I can get back in under three hours. HA! Mistake # 1: I didn't feel much like eating that early in the morning. I never do. So I didn't. Mistake # 2: I forgot that I had eaten the Power Bars in my seat bag, and thought I had food with me. I didn't. Mistake # 3: I listened to my son's hazy recollection of the course from two years ago when he described it as being not too tough, not too technical. He had forgotten a lot. Non-mistake # 1 (and only): I put all the water in my Camel Back that it would hold. So they drop the ribbon and the guy blows his whistle (no starting guns, too much smoke) and we're off. I'm number six in a field of 9 on the sprint, and feeling pretty good. We go around turn 1, still on the race track, and start up this little grade. I start gearing down and the guys behind me don't. Now I'm nineth in a field of nine and we finally hit the dirt. One of the sweetest hard-pack single tracks this side of Heaven, one of those rides where you go climb, climb, climb, descend, descend, climb, climb, descend . . . (I'll leave the rest to your imagination). I can see number 8 about 150 feet ahead of me, so I just keep up my normal routine of grabbing the gear that lets me keep my crank at 60 rpm (Hey, it works for me!) and soon the guy is 200 feet ahead, then 300, then lost in the woods, but heck, I'm not out of it yet! Soon I hear the clatter of chains and derailleurs behind me and I know that the first of the 15-19 year old beginners that started three minutes after we left is about to make his move. "Passing on your left!", he shouts, and rips by in a reasonably flat section with a relative speed of about 10 mph. A glance over my shoulder reveals abot 50 more on-your-lefts back there, so I get into the grass which is not the best line, but certainly the safest. Soon the kids ar all by me and I am once again alone. Not for long. Three minutes behind the boys are the 19-34 beginner women. Three minutes behind them are the 35+ beginner women. I will not detail the humiliating experience except to say that I graciously yielded the trail to one and all, and, once again, found myself in solitude. About five miles out I encountered a young lady of about 15 years enjoying her first race who told me that she would never race again. I told her it was illegal to give up after only one race and that she had to try at least one more. Five minutes later, I glanced back to realize that I was ahead of someone. A mile later I spot a course monitor at the side of the trail pointing down. I negotiated the short, loose, rutted drop off with ease. Half a mile more, no monitor in site, but two ominous arrows pointing down alerted me to a more serious drop. It was pretty loose and dusty, but I made it down unscathed, which is more than I can say for the poor guy getting his shoulder stabilized by one of the many dirt bikers (on a 250XR). Spotting the three arrows pointing down with three course monitors at the top (one with a radio with which to summon medical help), I decided to walk for a bit. At the halfway mark I stopped for a bit of juice and water and was told that this was, indeed the halfway mark and that it was all downhill from hear. "Liar!", I said. Then he says it's all uphill from here. I didn't respond, figuring it was kind of like climb, climb, climb, descend, descend, climb, climb, descend . . . (I think you have the picture). Another mile and I found myself on a particularly technical downhill featuring volcanic slabs and boulders in the middle of a bunch of sand. Braking heavily at both ends, I finally made it through, only to find myself at the top of another walk-down drop. I figure walking is a lot more graceful than going down end over end. By this time I figure I'm in Fort Ord. My suspicions were confirmed when I found myself on a fire road formerly used by tanks. The tread marks are the only place there wasn't rocks and weeds, so I rode along being buffeted by riding over the 1 inch ridges spaced about 8 inches apart. Loads of fun for you vibration freaks. At 11.1 miles on the old ODO, I realized that I was at the wall. Bereft of energy, no food in the bag, I realized the only thing I could do was to continue to flush out the few remaining nutrients in my body with my goodly supply of water. But what the heck, I've only got 5.9 miles left to go. During the next two miles I think I was delerious. I vaguely remember climbing, 60 rpm 'til I couldn't, off to huff and puff for a minute, walking 'til I could pedal again, over and over until the next decent which was typified by three fingers on the front brake and two on the back, then the next up. Next thing I knew, I was on "The Road Home". Billed as a two mile, middle ring quad buster, I chose to do it in the left rings, front and rear. The worst thing about this part is that you can see the whole two miles from the bottom, a demoralizing sight to one who burned out 2 miles back. It was on this auspicious pitch that I gained on another rider, a young man who was using my pedal, huff and puff, walk strategy. He asked me if I had a Power Bar to spare. I told him that if he found one, I'd give him two bucks for half of it. Ten minutes later, I was ahead of TWO riders. The return to civilization is a beautiful thing, especially when viewed from the top of a hill. Before long, I was off the dirt, at the top of a paved drop with a paved ascent at the other end. With a 31.5 mph breeze through my helmet vents on the drop, I began to realize that I was really going to make it. Then I found myself at the bottom of the corkscrew, which we had been told we would have to ascend, rather than taking the pedestrian bridge like last year. To Laguna Seca racing afficianados, the corkscrew is a steep turning downhill. To a burned out MTB rider, it is pavement to be walked up. Back on the single track cluttered with play riders saying "I don't see no racers." I tried to keep my cool, look like a racer and not run over anyone. Afterjust a couple minutes of this I found my self at the top of "The Power Post EXTREME !!!". After saying "YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING !!" about three times, I finally stepped off to cheers of "Better to walk and live to ride another day", and walked down. After a bit more grassy singletrack, I found myself back on the track. Darting between more "I don't see no racers." types, I realized that for the first time that day I was on the big front ring and little rear ring, crankin' away at 60 rpm (25 mph), and into turn 9 (or so). As I approached the finish line, I could see the crowds in the distance. But no, they're not crowds of fans, they're riders. The 19-24 experts are in the paddock waiting for their departure in about 20 minutes, and right behind them are the 25-29 experts. I spent the next three minutes saying "'Scuse me. Pardon me. I'm trying to get through to the finish line.". Finally arriving there, I was given a quizzical look by the announcer. I told him I wanted someone to record my finish. He pointed at the recorder. I lifted the front of my bike so he could get a good look at the number. I can't be sure, but I think yawned before writing down "3201". That afternoon at the beach in Carmel, refueling on burgers and fries, I told my son he could save a lot on next Christmas by giving me a certificate stating I didn't have to ride the Sea Otter Classic MTB XC race in 1998. But then a couple hours later I was scanning the hills nearby, wondering if I had time to unload and take a quick ride. So what's the bottom line? I have to look at it this way. A lot of the classes were filled to capacity. The sport classes that took off before me had their maximum of 200 riders each. I'm not sure about the younger beginner classes, but the 55+ beginners had 50 spots, nine riders. I didn't pass any of the other 8, but don't know yet how many of us finished. Then there were the 41 guys who didn't even start! I waxed each and evey one of them. One of them may have watched me walk down that last hill thinking that he could ride down. I beat him. One of them may have seen me in the parking lot, thinking that he wouldn't be as whipped as I after a mere 16 mile race. I beat him. One of them may have seen me loading my bike into the van, wishing that he had unloaded his in the early morning. I beat him. But that was 1997. What about next year? Next year I'm going to come in under 3 hours. Be there! Watch me! Better yet, ride it with me.