misadventures in mountain bike racing

Mountain biking is a sport I took to immediately. The combo of strength, adventure, and balance—hey, those years of practicing mediocre balance-beam routines actually worked!—was right up my alley.
In the 14 years since, it’s all been downhill. Take my first mountain-biking race, which I entered during my first Portland summer in 2001. Fresh from NYC, it was a way to christen myself as the outdoorsy chick I wanted to be. Armed with my new green Gary Fischer, I entered an off-road duathlon…and emerged relatively unscathed but with lessons learned:
DO follow the right course. All I know: One minute I was whizzing along, happy as a clam in mid-pack position. The next minute, I was beginning to wonder why have I not seen anyone in a long, long time? My fatal flaw: I had taken a wrong turn, and—still following course ribbons—was now somehow following the 5-mile run course (don’t ask).
Lesson learned: “Follow the crowd” racing technique doesn’t work in mountain biking races, no matter how much of a midpacker you are.
DON’T act like anything is wrong. I continue whizzing down this hill, clueless to my plight, when I come across a small water crossing. I splash my bike in and jump into the waist-height water. When I start pulling myself up the muddy slope on the other side, with the help of blackberry bushes (thank you, mountain-biking gloves!), I notice I’m not alone. “Are you still…racing?” asks a man camping nearby who is now peering down at me, while his child looks bug-eyed at the muddy monster crawling in the dirt. “We thought the race was already over!” “Nope!” I calmly reply, hopping back in the saddle with a wave and pedaling off.
Lesson learned: When you have absolutely no clue what you’re doing but you have witnesses, act cool as a cuke.
DO aim to entertain. After a panicky period known as “overthinking” my direction, I heard human voices. It was my friend Ryan cleaning up the course…one sight of me and he stopped in his tracks. “Hey, I wondered where you were—what are you doing out here?” I proceed to have a meltdown, while he calmly points behind me. Turns out, the finish line was just one mile down a fire lane.
Lesson learned: Befriend the people cleaning up the course so when you throw a mid-forest tantrum at least you’re among friends.
When I finally roll in, three hours after I began, the awards ceremony is over, and everyone is gathered for a barbecue. As a beer appears in my right hand, a towel in my left, I realize this: It may not have been the grand outdoors entrance I’d imagined, but I’d rather have a good misadventure than do well in a race. I mean, where’s the fun in following the crowd, anyway?