You and I have known one another for many years. We've shared many rides together, and even several races. And throughout all this time, I've always known you were a bike that encompassed the very essence of rule #5. Shoot, when people ask me what kind of gear ratio you're running, my answer is always simply "5."
In an age of 9r wheels, disc brakes, and sub-20lb out-of-the-box carbon single speeds, you, my dearest Marin, are an anomaly. And that's not a bad thing. With your old 26 inch wheels, your steel frame, your chain tensioner, and your adorably old v-brakes, you're a no frills type of bike. And that's OK.
That's why, when we rode around Morley Field to pre-ride Sunday's mountain bike course, I wasn't bothered at all when you decided to shirk off one of your two decade old water bottle cages with a level of disgust that would shock a lesser rider. Like I said, no frills.
I knew we'd only be racing for an hour, and with a shipment of Skratch Labs expected to arrive the day before the race, I would be plenty hydrated with only one bottle for the race. So alright. One bottle cage it is. That night, I removed the now defunct, decrepit bottle cage and threw it away with appropriate levels of disgust and disdain. No frills.
Enter the day of the race. I did the usual prerace checks that come with owning a single speed. Air in the tires? Check. Chain? Check. Good to go.
We toed the start line, you and I, ready and eager to leave our foes behind in a world of pain, suffering, and tears. Obviously, you received a ton of compliments. You're magnificent, after all.
"GO!" the announcer cried, and we were off, us brave single speeders, and some not-nearly-as-tough but still foolish geared category, the beginning of the course taking us into the velodrome for a lap before spitting us back out into the dirt. We left the velodrome and circled around behind it before cutting over to the dog park.
Boom bang skid brake bang. Your unforgiving steel frame and rigid fork forced me to hang on for dear life as we took our first downhill together at race pace, but we survived. That is to say, I survived. You laughed it off. Onto the flat, when I attempted to pedal, only to find that I was spun out of my gear. That's OK. Leaves me to conserve some energy. We ascended the pop up shortly after, then cruised down the following downhill, your v-brakes keeping us from going too quickly and sending me into a cactus that, honestly, I really did not want to be friends with.
Next up, the only real challenge that I was afraid off: a short but steep hill, rocky and loose. I knew any geared guys around me would shift into an easy gear and spin it out. Not an option for you and I, Marin. Our first lap, fortunately, we were in a bit of no-mans-land, not able to hang on to the front group of geared riders, but not slow enough to be caught by the second group behind us. So what did we do? We suffered, as only a single speeder could. We ground out that damn hill, and as we ascended its peak, my thighs finally caught on to the misery that they would be subjected to for the next 53 minutes.
Fortunately, they caught a bit of a break through the next flat, then the following downhill, before we hit another little pop up hill. Weren't no thang, though. We hammered onto the longest, flattest part of the course, and it was here that the geared guys I'd been holding off caught me, and proceeded to leave me behind like the one-geared suffermeister that I was. But that didn't last long.
We came to the Pershing St. climb. It was here that you and I would really shine, Marin. You were geared perfectly for a climb like this. At an average of 4% for roughly 0.6 miles, it was just steep enough that most geared guys would shift down and try to conserve/recover, and just long enough that they wouldn't want to grind it out. But not you, Marin. Your gearing made you a force to be reckoned with on the climb.
And a force we were. I can only imagine the number of spirits we crushed as we climbed, leaving people with gears behind left and right. Lesser riders were left in awe of how a single speed was cruising up the climb, its rider smiling in grim pain and joy on top of it. And this was just the first lap of four.
We climbed to the top of Pershing and hit the flat, circumnavigating a large field before we'd inevitably head back to the start/finish line. It was here that I got my first real surprise of the race: another single speeder had caught us. While we'd been sitting quite happily in 3rd, I thought we had a much larger gap on those behind us than we did. As we stuck on his wheel for the remainder of the first lap, that was when I noticed it: he was riding a fancy pants, new, sub-20lb out of the box, aluminum 9r single speed with disc brakes. I think that's what made you mad, Marin. And a mad Marin is, well, a mad bike.
We popped in and out of the velodrome, rode around its back and hit the downhill by the dog park. That's when it happened: your chain popped off. No matter, though. I knew it was just a matter of time before that happened. You were jury-rigged to be a single speed, after all. I hopped off, put the chain back on, and in less than 10 seconds, we were on our way again. But a bikes anger knows no bounds, and as we prepared to tackle that painful little climb, what happened next was a bit of a wrench in my race plan. Or should I say water bottle.
The suddenness and willing way you'd cast off your first bottle cage days prior was no big deal. I almost took it as a sign. You saying, "we don't need to stinkin' second water bottle, Ray. We're tough as nails. Hell, if we fell on a boulder, we'd probably hurt it! Get rid of this weak ass bottle cage!" And thus it was so. But I honestly didn't expect you to disregard the second cage with as much violence as you did. Maybe you were mad at the course. Maybe you were mad at me for letting that other single speeder catch us. But honestly, you weren't doing either of us a favor, because now I had to get off you again and rip the offending water bottle cage from its mount, stuffing it in my jersey pocket, an action that cost us roughly 60 seconds. Not to mention I'd lost all our momentum for the climb, which we now had to run. But run I did.
Top of the climb. Downhill. Ready for the pop up hill, start spinning the legs and.....the chain is off again. OK. Hop off the bike. Put it on. Run up the hill. Remount. Hit the flat. Climb. Finish the lap.
On our way out of the velodrome, I dropped the now useless bottle cage at the feet of some teammates and yelled something about not needing excess weight on my 30+lb bike. By now, I was trying pretty hard to make up lost time. Not all out. Not yet. I knew our spot on the podium was in jeopardy, and we were now into our 3rd of 4 laps. Uh-oh.
Downhill by the dog park and....chain off. Shit. Chain off by the hill of pain. Ouch. Chain off at the bottom of the following downhill. Dammit. It was almost like you were playing a game with me, Marin. I knew if we could just get into a rhythm, we could really haul ass. Hell, we'd done it the first lap. But I couldn't shake the feeling that you were trying to teach me something. As we cranked up Pershing St. again, administering pain and suffering to those behind us, it hit me.
On our first lap, I had grown complacent. Comfortable. Relaxed. Not rule #5, and definitely not actions becoming of a rider worthy of you. Each time the chain had come off, I had to work harder and harder to make up lost time. Your rejection of the water bottle cage forced me to carry my water bottle, rather than let you hold onto it. You were trying to make me suffer harder. Cue a light bulb and angelic requiem.
We entered the velodrome for the 4th and final time, this understanding now at the forefront of my mind. Go hard. Go fast. Don't just serve up suffering, but suffer yourself. This knowledge in hand, I opened the hurt locker and stuffed myself inside, determined not to rest until I crossed the finish line. I'd previously run 3 miles to finish a race, and I would do it again if I had to.
Fortunately, it never came to that. I maintained a hard pace through the rest of the race, though sadly never saw the 3rd place guy again. That fact ended up being moot, since, in fact, he wasn't 3rd place, but 4th. Turns out, one other single speeder was in our category, and nobody knew about him until the results were posted. Honestly, doesn't bother me, though. The 4th lap, the chain never came off. Boom. Rule 5 in effect.
The Marin is a blast of a bike to ride, if only because of its simplicity, and the Quick N Dirty course at Balboa Park was as fun as they come. The course was fast, but featured just enough climbs to break up the pack. The two major downhill sections were chattery enough to force me to pick my lines well, but weren't so technical that there wasn't anything I couldn't clear. All in all, I want to give props to the team at QnD. They put on a fun, fast race that gave a little bit of everything for everybody, and was spectator friendly to boot. Expect to see me again for the next one.
Overall, Team Ninja showed up with about 8 people and put at least one person on the podium in almost every category. Not too bad, if I do say so myself, so great job Ninjas.
And in case you wanted to see it, here's a picture of the Marin looking pretty satisfied with itself, having spit out the second bottle cage.
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