By D.C. Lucchesi
If Wheaties is the breakfast of champions, then blueberry pancakes are the fuel of the certifiably insane. Or at least damn fools, because that’s what I ordered as my pre-race meal in the nervous, dwindling hours before my first ultracross race. Ultracross. How do I explain this … Simply put, it’s like the bastard child of endurance mountain biking and cyclocross. And as the name implies, it’s kind of like cyclocross in that it’s skinny tires on dirt, but extrapolate that over distance. Fiftyish miles, to be somewhat exact. Like endurance racing, it’s over a much longer time than a typical ’cross race. Yep, you’re gonna be on that bike for a while, so energy management is part of the equation. Obstacles? Check. But think stream crossing and fallen trees. Got run-ups, too. The kind that should have stairs, or at least a rope. And like both its parents, there’s beer. Although dirt, bikes, and beer go together like peanut butter, jelly, and bread, being nearly blinded by the effort, I can’t confirm whether the smattering of spectators imbibed. But there was indeed beer for the racers, or near survivors, strategically placed with about 50 miles on your legs and at the foot of the last long run-up of the day.
Gravel grinders, or all-day affairs on (mostly) unpaved country roads, are fringe but much more common in the Midwest and big square states where winding farm roads go on seemingly forever. This particular event, Southern Cross, is the first of its kind in these parts. It also happens to be the last event of the 2011-2012 American UltraCross Championship Series and the first event of the 2012-2013 series. (It’s not as complicated as it sounds.) This one’s put together by a fellow named Eddie O’Dea, whose own racing resume is nearly as long as the course mapped for this event. I expected nothing less than the brain-numbing climbs and white-knuckle descents from a joint colloquially considered to be “your grandfather’s cyclocross.” In other words, you ain’t gonna see anything in the way of PVC barriers and dizzy circles around a grade school ballfield. Mother Nature’s work in this area is challenge enough. As photog-advocate-cyclist Weldon Weaver put it, girls in boots and puppies are in short supply along this kind of course. The start and finish on the Montaluce Winery outside Dahlonega, Ga., was damn near the biggest bait-and-switch for which I have ever fallen. A rolling, tree-lined cyclocross-style start leads you off the lush, landscaped property. From there, the course goes uphill, unpaved, and gets generally more evil in a hurry. Run-ups that should require handrails; hills that, if snow-covered, could easily make a case for chairlifts; and downhills over washouts, loose gravel and blind turns … all on a “course” that’s still open to any would-be traffic. What’s not to love? The registration page shouldn’t require a waiver but a note from your mom and a physician’s release form.
While a late-winter, ultra-distance off-road event might be the last hurrah for a few hard-core ’crossers before they flip to road racing, mountain biking, or other warm-weather pursuits, the grizzled endurance folk to the just plain curious all have their place here. While the warnings to keep the prissy carbon bits at home were generally adhered to, the field at Southern Cross was a do-it-yourselfer’s dream. From sho’ nuff cx rigs to modified 29ers to singlespeed to some serious Frankenbike setups, it’s all on display. And at some points along the course each and every setup might likely find a groove; in other parts its pilot might be left searching for that extra gear, wider tires, better braking, and so on. There’s likely no perfect tool for a job such as this, so knowledge of the course, your strengths and weaknesses, and what you’re willing to gamble make gear choice a part of the game. No crew or pit bikes here, either. You’ll get home – hopefully – with the one you rode in on. And you’d better know how to fix it, too. Stories of sticks sucked into rear derailleurs, untimely epic blow-outs and other mechanicals were passed around at the post-race party. Like other long-distance efforts, eating and drinking along the way are part of the equation. It’s prying your fingers from the controls long enough to get them to your face that’s the greater issue.
O’Dea’s course description begins with one word: hard. It could end right there. And everyone I spoke to at the finish or the post-race get-together agreed. Only they added a few more expletives. In some cases, a lot more. But like the bumper sticker says, sometimes the “fun” hurts pretty $%&# bad. From every granny-geared, lung-searing, near-puking climb to every scary-fast, 40-plus-mph, death-grip on the handlebar downhill, to that last will-breaking run-up before the finish, it was all fun. And, yeah, it hurt pretty $%&# bad. But an event that’s this well done and in such a beautiful part of the countrycan’t stay fringe for long.
Blueberry pancakes, anyone?
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D.C. Lucchesi runs, rides, and writes from Charlotte.When D.C. isn’t planning or participating in his own “next adventure,” the award-winning writer and former television producer can be found freelancing and waxing poetic on subjects ranging from health and endurance to schools and politics. When he’s not volunteering or coaching in some capacity with school-aged kids, he still enjoys interacting with grown-ups. Find him at dclucchesi@gmail.com.
