by Jeff Stone
We walked over to a long sand pit as wide as the course. A course-wide mud bog that was even longer followed it.
“Rules dictate that a race includes at least three different types of terrain,” Murphy said. “This course is mostly compacted dirt. However, that sand pit is a hundred yards long, and the mud bog is two hundred yards long. I installed fifty sprinkler heads and set them to run every couple hours to keep it from drying out.”
I recalled a saying I’d once heard: “If it ain’t muddy, it ain’t cyclocross.” Whatever. Mud was much cooler in its natural form, on a mountain bike trail.
We walked past the sand and mud, and I saw three large pieces of solid wood that had been set on edge about twenty feet from one another.
“They call those hurdles,” Murphy said. “Each is sixteen inches high and an inch wide, and they span the width of the course, per regulations. Riders usually get over ’em by climbing off their bikes, throwing their bikes over their shoulders, jumping over all the hurdles, then getting back onto their bikes to continue the race. Seems like a whole lot of work to me, but rules are rules. Got to have at least three hurdles.”
Following the hurdles was the worst section of all. It was a pair of tall, wooden staircase towers connected by a long, narrow plank.
Murphy pointed to the structure. “Each course is supposed to have a ‘defining feature.’ Ours is what I call the Wooden Tightrope. That plank is three feet wide, thirty feet long, and fifteen feet off the ground. A rider needs to get off his bike, carry the bike up the stairs, run across the platform, go down the other staircase, then get back onto the bike and keep riding. After that is the start/finish line.”
I shook my head at the ridiculousness of it all and considered the course’s overall length and layout. I knew cyclocross races were usually based on time as opposed to a predetermined number of laps, with the average time length being one hour. Racers did as many laps as they could as fast as possible, and when the lead racer began what would be his final lap to get to the one-hour mark, a signal was given so that all the racers knew this would be their last trip around the track. I figured I could crank out a lap here in ten minutes on my mountain bike, assuming twenty percent of the track was beyond the hills like Murphy said. If racers could do the same on a cyclocross bike, then that would give crowd members six chances to see their favorite rider trip over a hurdle, face-plant into the mud, or break his neck falling off the Wooden Tightrope.
Silly, not to mention dangerous.
“What do y’all think?” Murphy asked.
“It’s beautiful!” Hú Dié exclaimed.
I shrugged. “I’ll decide after I ride it.”
Murphy looked at me and smirked. “That’s fair. I’ll get my answer soon enough.”
“What do you mean?”
Murphy nodded toward the building.
I turned and looked at the back of the training facility. It was just like the front, except the single door on this side was about eight feet wide and eight feet tall. It was a roll-up loading bay door like the one at Hú Dié’s shop. I heard a garage door opener begin to whir, and the door rose. Ryan and Dr. V were standing behind the door. They headed toward us.
Ryan was decked out in a black and green Team Vanderhausen racing kit—short-sleeve zip-up jersey with custom graphics, padded riding shorts, and matching socks. He wore fingerless riding gloves and a helmet, as well as mountain biking shoes, like most cyclocross riders. His jersey and riding shorts were skintight. His arms looked nearly as big as my legs, and his legs were as big as Civil War cannons. He was pushing a cyclocross bike, and streams of hateful energy shot out of his eyes like laser beams toward me.
I swallowed hard and looked at Dr. V.
Dr. V was wearing a Team Vanderhausen racing kit of his own and a huge smile. He, too, was pushing a cyclocross bike. However, the bike wasn’t for him. It was sized for someone smaller—someone roughly my height.
“Phoenix!” Dr. V said. “So nice to see you. Ryan has been dying to show you his new playground. What do you say to a friendly welcome race?”
I glanced from Dr. V to Ryan and then to the cyclocross bikes they were pushing. I suddenly felt more exhausted than ever. I realized that while it was early afternoon, my body still thought I was back in China, where it was something like two a.m. tomorrow. Crossing the international date line really messed up a person’s sleep patterns, and my naps on the multiple airplane flights hadn’t seemed to help much.
I looked at Dr. V. “Sorry. I can’t race right now. Too much jet lag. Besides, it’s like a thousand degrees out here.”
“A bit of exercise will do you good,” Dr. V replied in a good-natured tone. “It will help your body adjust quicker to the time change. As for the heat, how about you only race a single lap? You can at least do that much, can’t you? I’m eager to see what you are capable of doing. Professional racers deal with the stress of travel on a weekly basis.”
I looked at Ryan’s riding gear. I didn’t have any of my own yet. I’d given my clothing and shoe sizes to the travel agent to pass along before I’d left China, but my official team kit was going to take a couple of days to make, and even longer to ship. It was coming all the way from Italy. Dr. V demanded nothing but the best.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” I said. “I don’t even have a helmet.”
“We have plenty of gear,” Dr. V replied, pointing to one of the walls. “Come in here and take a look. Bring your cousin, too. By the way, Ms. Hú Dié, I am Dr. V. Welcome.”
Hú Dié flashed her brilliant smile. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
The four of us walked through the huge doorway, followed by Murphy. The space appeared to be a large workshop and storage area. There were no windows, but there were two doors. One opened into a small bathroom. The other was closed and presumably led elsewhere inside the building. Shelves lined two of the shop walls, and a long workbench stood along the other. Most of the shelves were filled, as was the workbench. There were bike components of every kind, as well as enough tools to repair an army of bicycles. One shelving unit was stacked floor to ceiling with brand-new helmets still in their packaging from the manufacturer.
“Most of our equipment is here, and the team will arrive Thursday to get ready for the race one week from today,” Dr. V explained.
I looked at the bike Dr. V had leaning against him. The clip-in pedals were similar to the ones I had on my mountain bike back home, only way more expensive.
I pointed to the pedals. “Got shoes?”
A look of embarrassment passed over Dr. V’s face. “Actually, no. At least, not in your size. They were ordered along with your team clothing.”
“No problem,” Hú Dié interjected. “I can take care of it. Do you have any bailing wire?”
Dr. V, Ryan, Murphy, and I all turned to Hú Dié. I didn’t like where this was going.
“I don’t think it’s worth the trouble,” I said. “Let’s race some other time.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Hú Dié said. “I’ll make a set of cages similar to the ones you used in China, only without straps. They’ll work fine. It will only take five minutes.” She turned to Dr. V. “Where is your bailing wire?”
Dr. V glanced at the workbench overflowing with tools. “I don’t believe we have any. I take it you are a cyclocross fan?”
“I’m more than a fan,” Hú Dié said with a huff. “I’m a participant. What kind of cyclocross team doesn’t have bailing wire? Duct tape and bailing wire hold the cyclocross world together! What do you plan to do during a race when a bike breaks?”
“Give the rider a new bike,” Dr. V replied. “That’s within the rules.”
Hú Dié sighed. “That’s what rich road bikers do. Cyclocross races have pits with mechanics who are there to fix things quickly. That’s part of the excitement, seeing how clever the mechanics are. Don’t you have a mechanic?”
“Of course we have a mechanic. He will be here Thursday, but I highly doubt he
will be bringing bailing wire with him.”
Hú Dié pursed her lips and turned to Murphy. “What about you?”
Murphy grinned. “Got a roll in my truck bed. Use it all the time with Theo around. How much you want?”
“Six feet.”
“Be right back.”
“Hang on,” Hú Dié said. “I’m coming with you.”
Hú Dié and Murphy left the building, and Dr. V turned to me. “Is she joking?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I’m afraid not.”
“So you got to ride a bike in China, after all? With her?”
“A bit,” I replied, trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice. I didn’t want to slip and accidentally give away too much information. “She and her father, my … um, uncle, own a bike shop. That’s where I called you from. My grandfather thought I might like staying with them. The thing is, they live in a pretty big city and the drivers there are insane. There is no place to ride.”
“Didn’t you enjoy hanging out at the shop?”
“I like to break bikes, not fix them.”
Dr. V chuckled. “A boy after my own heart. Is Hú Dié any good with a wrench?”
“Watch.”
“I’ll watch her,” Ryan said with a devious snicker. “She’s hot.”
I shot him the evil eye.
“Boys,” Dr. V said. “Be nice. Now, you’ll have to excuse me for a moment. Nature calls.” He headed into the shop’s bathroom.
I turned to Ryan. “What has gotten into you, man? You never used to be like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re rude. You’re disrespectful. You attacked me back in Indiana. I thought we were friends.”
“Friends? Ha! Friends invite each other to their houses. Between you and me there was a one-way street. The same with Jake. You guys came over to my place, but I was never invited to either of yours.”
I thought about it. He kind of had a point. “What about your dad’s, uh …,” I began, but I wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.
“My dad’s what?” Ryan asked. “His funeral? What about it? You and Jake showed up, but I never heard from you guys again. You know what that means? You didn’t come to support me; you came to make yourselves look better. As though you actually cared. Or maybe you just came to schmooze with the cyclists that showed up? I saw you guys talking with them. Not that I care anymore. I have a new focus—myself. I’m going to become the best cyclist the world has ever seen. If there is anyone standing between me and a first-place finish, I will stomp them. I’m not out to make friends. It’s not like I can make them, anyway.”
So that was it, I thought. “Geez, Ryan, I’m sorry. We didn’t mean for it to seem that way.”
“Whatever.” He turned and stormed through the door that led into the training facility as Dr. V exited the bathroom.
“Ryan has anger issues,” Dr. V said in a low voice as he walked over to me. “It is understandable. Losing a parent is devastating. Once you start riding as teammates, he’ll warm back up to you.”
I wasn’t so sure about that.
Hú Dié returned, pulling one of her suitcases, while Murphy pulled the other and held a loop of wire. They both were sweating like Arizona marathon runners in August.
“What have you got in these here bags?” Murphy asked her. “Seem a little on the heavy side.”
“I’ll show you,” she replied. She laid her bag on the polished concrete floor, opened a small combination lock, and then zipped back the large front panel. The top half of the suitcase was clothes that had been stuffed into large ziplock bags, presumably to keep them clean. The bottom half was tools, as I’d suspected.
Hú Dié removed her white gloves and pulled her hair back into a ponytail, tying it off with a zip tie from her suitcase. She grabbed a pair of tin snips and said, “Give me five minutes. Phoenix, why don’t you go put on the padded shorts I made for you?”
Dr. V looked at me and raised an eyebrow. I turned away, embarrassed.
“You can change in the shop bathroom,” Dr. V said. “I’ll give you a proper tour of the facility after your ride.”
I sulked out to the SUV and found it unlocked. I grabbed my padded cargo shorts from my backpack and headed into the small bathroom. I didn’t really need the shorts for just one lap, but I wanted to get out of sight for a few minutes. It would be good to let Hú Dié be the center of attention. This was her chance to show off, and I knew she needed to impress Dr. V if she was going to be allowed to stick around and hopefully help me out.
I waited several minutes before stepping back out into the shop. Most of the previously air-conditioned space had been overwhelmed by the heat pouring in through the open bay door. Everyone inside was now sweating as much as I was. Hú Dié had already finished the pedal cages and was adjusting the angle of the bike’s drop-style handlebars as Dr. V held on to the frame.
“She has already lowered the seat, too,” Dr. V said to me as I approached. “Now she’s tweaking the bars. She is incredibly fast, and I’ve never seen anyone do this without a tape measure. I can’t wait to see how it fits.”
“You will see right now,” Hú Dié said, stepping back from the bike. “Try it, Phoenix.”
Dr. V handed the bike to me, and I threw a leg over it, straddling the top tube.
“Looks like a great fit,” Dr. V said. “Take it for a spin.”
“Wait a minute,” Hú Dié said. She walked over to the shelf full of helmets, picked one, tore it out of its box, and adjusted the strap length before tossing the helmet to me.
I strapped it on. Of course it fit perfectly.
“Amazing,” Dr. V said.
Hú Dié smiled.
I slipped my right foot into Hú Dié’s makeshift pedal cage and rode out the bay door, then slipped my left foot into its cage. The cages worked flawlessly.
As critical as I was about cyclocross bikes and the sport itself, I’d never been on a ’cross bike before. The bizarre combination of road bike frame and mountain bike–type tires wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d imagined. In fact, I kind of liked it.
The bike fit me just right, and I found the different body position refreshing. A person generally sat more upright on a mountain bike, and leaning forward as I was now made me feel more in control. The bike also made me feel fast, mostly because it was fast. Between the different-sized drive sprocket and the much larger wheels, this bike traveled much farther with each revolution of my feet compared with a mountain bike. The knobby tires gripped the dirt surprisingly well, and before I knew it, I found myself tearing through the low grass behind the building. The bike didn’t even need to be on the compacted dirt course. I had an overwhelming urge to rip across the field toward the hills and see what I could do with this thing.
“Looks like a winner!” Dr. V called out. “Both the bike fit and the rider. You’re quite the sprinter, Phoenix. Get back here and let’s see how you do against my nephew.”
I returned to the workshop, and Dr. V said something to Murphy. Murphy disappeared into the training facility, returning with two full water bottles. Ryan was with him. Murphy handed one bottle to Ryan and tossed the other to me. Ryan and I both took long drinks, then shoved our matching team bottles into the matching water bottle cages attached to the down tubes of our matching bikes. Except for the way our feet connected to the pedals, our equipment was identical, right down to matching mini tire pumps also bolted to the bikes.
Ryan scowled at me. “Let’s do this.”
He climbed onto his bike and took off out of the workshop. I rode after him on my bike, followed by Dr. V, Hú Dié, and Murphy. Ryan stopped at the start/finish line, and I pulled up even with him, several feet to one side. There was no point in our getting jammed up on a course this wide.
Dr. V looked at me. “The route is simple enough. Murphy did an excellent job with the course. All you need to do is point your bike forward and ride.”
“If you get lost,” Ryan said, “you c
an just follow my tracks.”
Hú Dié giggled, and Ryan turned to her. “Pretty funny, aren’t I?” he asked.
“Yes, you are,” she replied, looking at his legs.
Ryan flexed his quads. “Can’t stop staring at my muscles?”
Hú Dié giggled again. “I was laughing about your seat height. It’s a full two centimeters too high. You’re riding top-heavy.”
“Ha!” Dr. V said. “I’ve been telling him that for two days.”
Ryan frowned. “I’m out of here. Somebody count to three so we can start.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Can’t you count that high yourself?”
Ryan began to blush, and he blasted down the course without waiting for the three-count.
I took off after him.
I fumbled with the bike’s foreign gearshift mechanism for a second—short levers on the handlebar stem—and then I got the hang of it and shifted smoothly through the chain ring until I’d caught Ryan and passed him. Nobody could outsprint me when my legs were fresh.
Hú Dié hollered from somewhere behind me, and I grinned. I liked the fact that people could see me. I kept hammering, weaving my way effortlessly through the course’s twists and turns. The bike fishtailed every now and then, but nowhere near as badly as I would have guessed. I liked this sport more and more. The true test, however, was coming up—hills and trees.
I was a full sixty feet in front of Ryan when I reached the trees and barreled over the first hill, out of sight of the others. The bike handled the transition like a dream. The course was smooth and the slopes weren’t too steep, and I was actually enjoying myself. I crossed over a narrower trail that ran perpendicular to the course, and I wondered where it led. It looked as if it might be an old horse trail. I would have to ask Murphy about it. I wanted to give this bike a try over more rugged terrain sometime.
I rode on for another few minutes, excited by unusual thorny scrub trees and the occasional cactus, when I heard Ryan grunt. I looked over my shoulder and saw that he was less than twenty feet behind me and coming up fast.
I could hardly believe it. Ryan had done the same thing back in Indiana. The big ape might not be able to sprint, but he sure had stamina and a lot of heart. His entire head was as red as a tomato, and he was gulping air like a dying fish, but he was gaining.
