My weekly Tale of Racing Woes is a little late this week because business travel has taken me to Kansas City for a few days. For those who are unaware, Kansas City is a gem of a place, with great old architecture, a very lively city core, nice old neighborhoods filled with classic houses (as well as new McMansion developments outside of town) and people who, as a group, are as nice as they are straightforward. It's a great city and I'd love to live here.
After some staffing issues that had me staying in various hotels that were awfully ghetto or contained ghetto-like substance ("but Jim, it's close to where your meetings are the next day;" me: "I don't care. It's a crack den"), I took hotel booking into my own hands. After a minor war waged with the afforementioned support staffers, we landed in the place in KCMO that I researched out and recommended, the Hotel Phillips.
Holy line dancing Lord above, this place is the nicest hotel I have ever stayed in, bar none. It was built in the 1930's, and renovated about 8 years ago, so everything in it is old, but also new. The decor is original restored Beaux Arts-meets-Gustav Stickley with antique Arts & Crafts, Eastlake and Neo-Greco style furniture, along with more modern stuff that fits a Victorian / Beaux Arts theme. I walked into the lobby and nearly dropped to my knees. The craftsmanship practically punched me in the stomach. I do some woodworking, making nice furniture bits. I *know* what goes into gingerbread carvings and bas relief work on 7/8" inch dark stained oak panel. Mercy me. The service was just as exquisite as the decor. The chop house restaurant in the hotel was spot on, and the drinks perfect. The music, I think, was Bix Biederbecke. I asked the bartender what he thought of working there. His answer was plain, and honest: "I like it. A lot. It's old school. It's what a hotel should be."
That's exactly right, exactly how I felt. I've stayed places before that offered more luxury, fancier bits here and there, or other little frills that were nice. I've never stayed at a better example of an old school hotel though - oak panels, beaux arts relief carvings in the lobby, unbelievably intricate plaster crown moulding in the rooms, metal etchings in the elevators. You can get more or less from a hotel; you won't get another one that is more spot on. It was a typical example of the breed, and immensely satisfying place to stay because of that. In my mind's eye, I have always had a mental picture of what an old school luxury hotel looks like. The Phillips is the hotel that lives there. I was stunned to run into it in real life.
I'm starting by discussing the hotel because yesterday's race at Lilypons was a good example of the breed: a race that typifies what I think of as a cross race in my mind's eye.
My race wasn't something to write home about. I didn't want to mess with wrecking cables again like at last year's race, so I rigged the Surly Cross Check to run single, in too high of a gearing because putting on Michelin Muds was enough work, and I was too lazy to bust the stuck freewheel off the flip flop hub.
When the race started, I knew I couldn't keep up; I just couldn't turn over the pedals fast enough to keep churning through the mud. Leverage in the tall gearing worked against me. Shallow mud is okay but in deep mud, I sink. So I decided to get off the bike and run early, and run far, in the mud pits. Passed by most by the time we ended the prologue, I began the long grind. At first, I wanted to quit. The legs were aching, but I've been practicing big ring drills so I stuck it out. Ah, relief on the gravel road, where I could pass anybody within a stone's throw of me. The back 9 was fine, I just kept pedaling and ripped it.
After a lap, the legs settled down into a constant steady burn as if in a time trial, and I focused on achieving my low goal for this C priority race - to ride as hard as I could, get as much training value out of it as possible, work on my handling, and have fun. That I did. In dry weather a decent finish is in the cards on this course but if there's a mud pit, even mediocrity is a bridge too far. So I focused on hitting my goals, and I did, finishing on legs too tired to turn the cranks over. Even the slightest rises were taking an extreme effort just to keep the bike moving. "Mercy kill me" I shouted to the refs as I passed the finish. I felt really damn good though, in spite of the huge effort.
It wasn't until I was standing in line at the wash pit chatting with Jon, that I realized the significance of this race. He told me he was in good shape, got run off the course and landed in a pond. Then on the next lap, he miscalculated a turn, went over the bars, and landed in a pond. He got a mediocre result, but was smiling. It occurred to me then - you can get better results, or worse results, but this edition of Ed Sander was a very typical cross race for many people. There was mud, struggle, pain, joy, and all sorts of crazy crap in between. Maybe you can get other courses that have unique features, or you have a great result on them, or something really unusual happened. None of that went down at Ed Sander. All we had there was an excellent example of "Cross Race, 1 Each." An archetypal struggle against mud. If you asked me to picture what a typical cross race is in my mind's eye, with the suffering, the caprice, the pain and fun, I'd have pictured this race.
So I washed off a bit and got changed, and chatted with a lot of friends for a bit. That was fun as well; the people make the scene as much as the race. The day continued when Son of Rouleur and Sainted Wife of Rouleur showed up for the Little Belgian's race. Son of- was keyed up; he's 5, and false started when they whistled the 4 and under class off. When his race went, he got a bad start, but quickly worked his way up to the front, and diced with another kid for two laps, eventually taking second. After Son Of's- podium, we wandered around a bit, then hit the Back 9, capping the experience with a free waffle and a beer. Sainted Wife and Son Of- then went home, and I went straight to Dulles, where I made my flight on time (albeit stinkily) and left town.
I may have had better days here or there in my life, but I'd be hard pressed to name them. I may have had worse days. But this particular day was right down the middle, a cross race that had a little bit of every characteristic that one expects from a cross race. Having my wife and kid with me made it even better, and on the plane flying west, I had a mental and emotional buzz (as well as some cramping and blown legs). Then it hit me: I had just experienced a very normal day, but the kind of day that I consider to be a perfect day.
No, it wasn't outstanding in any particulars; it was just a good example of the type. It matched up with the image I hold in my mind's eye, of a perfect day at the races.
When we run across an archetype, the example of a thing that perfectly characterizes that type of thing, we remember it as always. It becomes the gold standard against which all future, similar things are compared. It imprints itself permanently on our brain. Yesterday's highly typical cross race was just that, filled with suffering, fun, excellence, L'il Belgians, cheering, beer and waffles. I could have done a little better or a little worse, but it doesn't matter; the day was Crossy, it was perfect. The little fun details that I remember about it will be added to the Platonic Ideal notion of a cross race that I hold in my mind. That day - a day that had so much fun I felt like I was drunk afterwards - will be the race against which I judge all other races, just as the hotel I'm staying in now will become the standard against which I compare all the others.
People knock the center mass, the fat part of the bell curve. But there's a lot to be said for being perfectly typical of the breed. Don't sneer when you call something "typical."
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