FYI:
I raced my mountain bike today in Johor Bahru, Malaysia; Something I do frequently with my fellow expat and Singaporean friends.
The race was hosted at the Sales Gallery, a glass box in the middle of a field where happy young first-time property owners will congregate to be wowed into purchasing a condo between a freeway, high powered electrical lines, and a pretty nice looking hill adorned with classic radio towers ( why are there always two? ) poking out of its top.
Cas and I arrived around 7am, parked under three, three foot high palms and were very happy to see that a few winners had already locked in their places at the starting line one and half hours early by placing their bikes in several configurations: 1, the upside down, scratch your shifters pose; 2, the 'I just slid out because I'm too fast for corners' sidewinder move; and 3, the tripod, where two bicycle flying buttresses suspend the almighty third into perfect vertical harmony.
We lined up for our goodie bags and had to pay the man 50 Ringgits each! We picked up all of the Anza sacks, but didn't have enough money. Luckily, the Official relinquished said kit on the condition that our team pay the remainder. I'm not sure if anyone from the team showed up to pay this, but if they haven't we probably shouldn't go back to Hazard County until we settle our debts.
This was all followed by the customary putting on of bike clothes, application of various lotions to body parts, checking the bike (most important) and getting nutrition into pockets and onto the bike and inside my mouth. A quick warm up presented me with a saddle in the wrong position and a rear shock with too little pressure. Oh well, I'll be happy with 35th place then.
By 8am, 30 minutes before start and 40 minutes before the actual start, the start line was packed. I just made some room by throwing my bike down next to a few smoking racers (not hot, actually having a cigarette) and asserting my dumb Ang Mo friendliness.
Now we wait, the nervousness of the crowd is not palpable. We wait some more. Why are my fellow racers smiling and laughing? This is a race! This isn't fun!
Ayub -a local mountain bike race organizer dude with a goatee- shows up wearing an umbrella for a hat. Yes, it's about to get real. He calls all women to the front of the field for, what I can only assume is to increase the photogenic-ness of the start line pictures for next year's Jamboree!
We wait a few more minutes until the local Dignitary and his sidekick show up in a fully tinted our late model Acura; we rock a few prayers, we sing the anthem, aaand we're off!
The race was sunny and muddy and road-y for the first 5k (I don't actually know, but my wife needs her computer back now so I have to speed things up). I pushed, yelled, and clawed my way to the front where a select group of Singaporeans (who are phonetically called Kennis and Junied -apologies for my bad spelling-), a dude in red, and some guy rolling a 29er with no suspension were killing themselves to tear the last shreds of the elastic band back to the peloton to dust.
Once that was accomplished, we rotated through and worked to drop people until we were down to three, our method of dropping people mostly included Junied hammering, and me taking crappy lines to screw people up behind. It worked like a charm.
Then it was three, and it stayed that way until the end when I led out the group for the last 20k because my friends were complaining that it was too tough. This, of course, caused my road racing spidey senses to go off the charts as I knew that they were reserving their power for the final sprint. Whatever. I'm here to train for a stage race in Thailand, so I'll sit on the front, get some excercise, and put you in my pain cave while I do it.
I lost the sprint to Junied after 20k of pulling in the sun, but retained second from 29er guy.
Ok, I seriously have to go now, thanks for reading a Canadian perspective!
Joel
The race was hosted at the Sales Gallery, a glass box in the middle of a field where happy young first-time property owners will congregate to be wowed into purchasing a condo between a freeway, high powered electrical lines, and a pretty nice looking hill adorned with classic radio towers ( why are there always two? ) poking out of its top.
Cas and I arrived around 7am, parked under three, three foot high palms and were very happy to see that a few winners had already locked in their places at the starting line one and half hours early by placing their bikes in several configurations: 1, the upside down, scratch your shifters pose; 2, the 'I just slid out because I'm too fast for corners' sidewinder move; and 3, the tripod, where two bicycle flying buttresses suspend the almighty third into perfect vertical harmony.
We lined up for our goodie bags and had to pay the man 50 Ringgits each! We picked up all of the Anza sacks, but didn't have enough money. Luckily, the Official relinquished said kit on the condition that our team pay the remainder. I'm not sure if anyone from the team showed up to pay this, but if they haven't we probably shouldn't go back to Hazard County until we settle our debts.
This was all followed by the customary putting on of bike clothes, application of various lotions to body parts, checking the bike (most important) and getting nutrition into pockets and onto the bike and inside my mouth. A quick warm up presented me with a saddle in the wrong position and a rear shock with too little pressure. Oh well, I'll be happy with 35th place then.
By 8am, 30 minutes before start and 40 minutes before the actual start, the start line was packed. I just made some room by throwing my bike down next to a few smoking racers (not hot, actually having a cigarette) and asserting my dumb Ang Mo friendliness.
Now we wait, the nervousness of the crowd is not palpable. We wait some more. Why are my fellow racers smiling and laughing? This is a race! This isn't fun!
Ayub -a local mountain bike race organizer dude with a goatee- shows up wearing an umbrella for a hat. Yes, it's about to get real. He calls all women to the front of the field for, what I can only assume is to increase the photogenic-ness of the start line pictures for next year's Jamboree!
We wait a few more minutes until the local Dignitary and his sidekick show up in a fully tinted our late model Acura; we rock a few prayers, we sing the anthem, aaand we're off!
The race was sunny and muddy and road-y for the first 5k (I don't actually know, but my wife needs her computer back now so I have to speed things up). I pushed, yelled, and clawed my way to the front where a select group of Singaporeans (who are phonetically called Kennis and Junied -apologies for my bad spelling-), a dude in red, and some guy rolling a 29er with no suspension were killing themselves to tear the last shreds of the elastic band back to the peloton to dust.
Once that was accomplished, we rotated through and worked to drop people until we were down to three, our method of dropping people mostly included Junied hammering, and me taking crappy lines to screw people up behind. It worked like a charm.
Then it was three, and it stayed that way until the end when I led out the group for the last 20k because my friends were complaining that it was too tough. This, of course, caused my road racing spidey senses to go off the charts as I knew that they were reserving their power for the final sprint. Whatever. I'm here to train for a stage race in Thailand, so I'll sit on the front, get some excercise, and put you in my pain cave while I do it.
I lost the sprint to Junied after 20k of pulling in the sun, but retained second from 29er guy.
Ok, I seriously have to go now, thanks for reading a Canadian perspective!
Joel
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