The best-laid plans of mud-covered men go awry
My buddy Magnus and I met all of our neighbors as we camped near Loudonville the night before the Mohican 100 mountain bike race. When you inadvertently choose the campsite right next to the bathroom, you have little choice but to greet all who pass by your campfire.
There was the couple celebrating their 18th anniversary, a pair of young families tenting together with three toddlers and several dogs between them, and, of course, a thriving abundance of mountain bikers of every size, shape and level of experience. The weather was golden that evening, and despite the prerace jitters (or perhaps as a way of avoiding them), no one seemed in a big hurry — at least not on their way back from the bathroom.
The most common topic of conversation was whether we had done the race before. When newbies found out both Magnus and I had collectively been around the block dozens of times in the 22 years of the race, they’d invariably ask for our best advice.
“Two things: First, keep moving, no matter how slow you’re going,” I’d say, “but even more importantly, be well-prepared for pain.”
With that I would dramatically produce a small, squishy packet of goop from my pocket. It’s a product called chamois cream, and it’s made specifically to keep a cyclist’s behind from turning to hamburger on long, ugly rides.
“This could save even more than your life!” I’d laugh.
The joke was well understood by those who had spent the appropriate amount of time in the saddle to have learned the hard way. Those who didn’t understand were already doomed.
Chamois cream, a product with all the visual and tactile attraction of vegetable shortening, is a rider’s only defense against deep, dark despair. Generously applied prerace, I kept a full packet of the goop at the ready, stuffed deep inside the pocket of my jersey. On even the best of days, seven hours on a bicycle seat could easily leave a “lasting impression.” With heavy rain forecast for the first several of those hours, the likelihood that much of the day would be spent squishing along in the adult equivalent of a fully sodden baby diaper seemed inevitable.
Under ideal conditions, mountain biking involves a minimum of mud. When race day arrives in a downpour, however, there is nothing one can do but plow through it, wear it and sometimes even eat it. I’m still picking mud out of my eyes and ears in the wake of last weekend’s struggle — a minor complication compared to the parts of me typically covered by bicycle shorts.
It was 40 miles and five hours into the mud fest when I could no longer deny the damage being done. Still rolling (remember: never stop moving) and momentarily alone on a stretch of gravel road, I pulled a mud-encrusted glove off with my teeth, dug the tube of special sauce out of my pocket and squirted a big blob of it onto my grimy paw. Then, skillfully riding hands-free, I pulled open the front of my shorts to do the deed. Unfortunately, as the best-laid plans of mud-covered men go, I knocked half a pound of the mud that had caked on the front of my jersey directly into my shorts in the process.
I spent the rest of the ride stewing in what amounted to an emulsion of coffee grounds, playground sand and chunky peanut butter. I may never be the same.
Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.