Bumper Bikes and Saint Purnell Parts the Sea of Mud.

Those who live on the mighty Mississippi are kissin' cousins to plagues and flood, miracles and mud. The river gives, the river taketh away. Ain't no thing - just deal with it and move on. Happens all the time they say.

Even before the 14th running of the 105 mile Rouge Roubaix bike race began, the host town of Saint Francisville had a problem. Four miles from the finish, a 100' long bridge flooded over, leaving a huge tree across the middle and a knee deep, gooey brown mud-slide at both ends. No earthly way to run a bike race across it.

Three members of Cycle Logic bike race team and one frenemy from another team came upon this scene of devastation on a reconnaissance drive the night before. While a half dozen anxious and unaccountably rude young racers milled about in panic and disbelief - Irish Ed Dunne calmly scouted out an alternate route involving a high sandy ridge and floating across on an oak stump Noah's Ark style. "Easy as Mississippi Mud pie." he implied.

While pretending to consider this dubious solution we were distracted by the god-awful thundering of a giant diesel engine approaching from upon high. It was Saint Purcell and his almighty bull dozer of justice. Raising his 10 cubit wide bucket he quickly smate the evil mud from both sides and cast the stubborn tree back whenst it came. There was rejoicing amongst the lycra clad chosen. The race was saved! Laisser les bon temps rouler! Let the good times roll.

Race Day
Race day morning and we lined up in mixed category race waves. Ninty-three of us were promptly escorted out of town by the High Sheriff of West Feliciana Parish with motorized Race Bible Angels beseeching us to "be not tempted to cross the yellow line at any time or be cast down unto the hell at the back."

Without incident our sweaty little tribe flew over 25 miles of smooth and sinuous roads with no great change of race position-until the 9 mile long rocky road to hell began. Immediately the slippery gravel, potholes and hills thinned the pack to about 25. Two miles later a dangerous single file snake of 15 guys were opening up a dangerous gap. Shaking off my stupor I moved to the front then put the hammer down. A few guys, including Frank Jennings (1st last year) Randy (2nd last year), my teammate Lambert Vaes and Jayson O'Mahoney jumped on my wheel as I dove from slippery corner to slippery corner to shrink the gap. Thirty seconds later I latched on to what would become the winning break.
Whew!
Sit in. Recover. Go again. Sit in. Recover a little less. Go again. Think about famous Greg Lemond quote "...It never gets easier-you just go faster."

A mile or two later I notice Jayson, who is a much better time trialist than I, inexplicably vanish off the back. He had one of his few bad days apparently and later broke a spoke. At least it wasn't his chain again. Belgian teammate Lambert Vaes was on the verge of catching back on but flatted. He went on to finish 4th and in the money even so.

Emerging back onto blessed pavement I counted nine 40+ men and three of us 55+ men. No women at all were left, unlike the two previous years, the pace was apparently too high this year. But it was time to make sure we stayed away from the other 80 riders so I encouraged a big rotation long and loud enough (emphasizing that we were 55+ and no threat to their prize list) that we held the chasers off.

An hour or so later we left the big rolling paved hills of Mississippi and headed back towards Louisiana onto dirt on Blockhouse Hill. Blockhouse is about 1 mile of 15% packed gravel road with a fat guy at the top waving a crisp $100 bill for the first up. Three or four guys went after it hard leaving the rest hoping they would blow up and come back to us when the pavement returns 2 miles later (which all but one did). Once you reach the top you plunge down and up two more short but steep hills with deep, wheel sucking sand at the bottom - which you hit at 40 mph trying to hold momentum up the other side. You realize this watching guys suddenly fishtailing and face - planting all around you.

Being a mediocre cross biker I too was soon fishtailing and looking for a soft spot to land when a sort of miracle occured. I say sort of miracle because a string of obscenities, including the lord's name in vain, erupted violently behind me as a 180 lb blasphemer rammed my rear wheel and "bumper-biked" me back upright and through the sand pit unscathed and rolling back up the hill. At the top I was amazed there was no damage to my tire or wheel. I love my Kryseriums. After 5 years of racing and 3 Rouge Roubaix's they are truly bullet proof.

Soon, 4 of us were back on pavement then quickly chased down two more. More importantly, only Gus Ferrar and I were left in the 55+ with Randy still fighting the sand pit. Sweet! lots of horsepower and little obligation to chase hard.

Eventually we entered the last of the dirt sections. The first hill was almost impossible to ride up without falling over on the steep, slippery gravel and 17% gradient. I was determined to finally ride up it unlike last year when Frank Jennings (who went on to win anyway) popped a wheelie right in front of me and stopped everybody cold.

This year Gus and I were side by side torqing out 20 rev's and rocking back and forth when he also popped a wheelie and stopped everybody cold. I must confess, I blasphemed him as he thrashed on the ground trying to unclip. Seeing an opportunity to sneak away with 1st place I ran my bike hard up the rest of the hill, jumped on and bombed the next few scary dirt rollers like a bat out of hell.

It was to no avail. The dude is very strong, he chased me down and kept me on the rivet every uphill. Luckily I have been taking descending lessons from Jayson and gained it all back while I put my brain on hold, just as I was taught.

Back on "pavement"
For the next 20 miles Gus and I rode in the company of 3-5 40+ riders who came and went (backwards) fighting fatigue and leg cramps. For some reason Gus either felt really good or didn't realize I was his only competition left and took almost as many pulls as the youngsters who wanted to rein in the last guy off the front. I pulled a fair amount of time but leg cramps dictated a slower speed than most of the others. Ya got what ya got.

For a while I considered telling Gus I wouldn't fight him for first since he was stronger but stopped short. Who knows what he really had left. It could be a bluff. Let him prove he is stronger. My team wants me to win.

Well, he was stronger - quite a bit stronger as it turned out. The final sprint is up a nasty two-step hill. Whatever cramp you silenced talks loudly now.

"Shut up legs!" I said.

At the top of the first hill I surged ahead a bike length. "He's fading! He's fading!" I thought. "Please stop! Please stop!" said my legs.

"Shut up legs!" I said again.

I hear a gear click and two youngsters with Gus in tow were suddenly 2 bikes in front of me. "Sit down! Sit down you moron!" yelled my legs. I sat down.

I am not Jens Voigt. I listen to my legs.

My legs won the argument. I got second in the race. We both felt blessed by Saint Francaisville and will be back next year.



Laissez les bon temps rouler!

K-Dogg

Southern Cross Race and Mr. Dobalina

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina. Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

Google this name. You will eventually discover it's from a strangely addicting repetitive song by The Monkeys from 1967 called "Zilch." Like an irritating jingle that won't leave you alone it was firmly lodged in my brain for the whole weekend by a certain little Australian monkey at the start of the 2012 Southern Cross Extreme Cyclocross race last weekend.

Three middle aged (plus) road racers decided to drive 450 miles to torture ourselves and 3 expensive bikes up and down 7000' of climbing and 50 miles over rough dirt paved with granite outcroppings. But before this fun the race promoters insisted we navigate an insidious cylocross course of felled trees, knee high clingy kelp-like grass fields, slippery stream crossings and 10' high vertical ditch walls.

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

The weather report called for 38 degrees with a high of 46. Wind at Springer mountain ridge clocked at 35 mph with gusts. Possible ice on the roads. Just before the race my bottom bracket was making cracking noises every stroke. The race mechanic rode a little circle, shrugged and said "don't worry about it. Aluminum and Titanium always do that."

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

Back to the car. Nervous chatter with Irish Ed and Aussie Jayson. Make jokes about how differently they pronounce the "F" word.
"I'm freezing! What are you wearing? Will I sweat like a pig on the the climbs then freeze on the way down?" Throw clothes in the car. Grab them back out. Take turns nervously peeing behind car. Cram down Sport Beans for no good reason.

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

Ten minutes to start we head towards the start only to see 300 people already lined up 8 wide and football field deep. Crap!
Remember it's a mass start. Men up to 40, Men over 40, women, juniors and "others." The whole gaggle is supposed to sprint
50 yards then leave the pavement en mass into a grassy hole shot that plunges down out of site like a double black diamond ski hill.

Everybody intends to be at the very front to avoid the inevitable log jam as the course funnels down to 4' wide at the felled tree.
For some reason Jayson and Ed decided to be good boys and slink to the very back of the herd. Having not been schooled in proper U.K. finishing schools I stopped two rows back and weaseled my way into 15th position. Unlike selfish roadies, I found X'ers extremely polite and accommodating. They actually smiled and made room for me. When the gun went off Ed and Jayson continued being good boys politely waiting a full minute to even clip-in. I was half way through the course. Good on them!

Being so far forward I was able to comfortably hold position thru the narrows, up the kelp hills, over the felled tree, cross the slippery stream, up the vertical wall and 100 yard hill that few could ride up.

Then we hit blessed pavement and 20 or so bikers ahead formed eschelons heading out of the vineyard and toward the first 12 mile dirt climb up Springer Mountain. Jayson and Ed were still seething in line at the felled tree with 295 people flailing around in front of them.

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

Half an hour and a few dozen minor ascents and descents our little group of 6 guys hit the base of Springer chasing 15 or so top guns. Springer Mountain has an average grade of 15% with several long sections of 25-27%. The road is so rough and steep only 4 wheelers can keep moving. That, and bikers with a minimum of a 34 X 28 gearing. It takes most people over an hour to top. Our little group eventually lost 3 off the back and I was 100' (and 30 seconds at that speed) behind the rest turning squares at about 7 mph. Somewhere in the 27% purgatory section, 137 pound teammate Irish Ed quietly floated up and past me like a polite wee shadow. "Ah Kerry. stay with me now" he breathed. Finding little draft at walking speed Ed slowly vanished into the boggy mist like the Tuatha De Dannon never to be seen again. Left alone in my granny gear, the Monkey's mantra seeped back matching my cadence......

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

At this point the rear tire started bottoming out on the rim from time to time. A few bounces confirmed this. I was down to about 20 pounds. Stopping at 27 % is out of the question. You'd only trackstand then stupidly pull a Wiley Coyote over the cliff face. Twenty minutes later I hopped off and found it was holding. Should be ok. Forgot about it and started the 8 mile 15% switchback descent. Several people came past at irresponsibly fast speeds. Eventually it ended onto a three mile stretch of civilized pavement. Now my body knew what do - go into a tuck and run down the last 4 to pass me. No skill required. Approaching 35 mph the 20 pounds in the rear hissed as loud as a commercial sandblaster and rolled about as well. Crap! Can't stop now! Bridge up! Bridge up!

Ok-bridged up just as the last big climb back up and over Springer Mountain began. Eight miles straight up. At least I was in my element and soon dropped everybody except a really nice 18 year old named Boris. Yes, Boris from Birmingham. We stayed together the whole climb. Nobody passed us except two tall guys on single speeds. They don't count. It had to be an illusion.

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

Just over the top my rear tire finally gave up the ghost. Tire change took 3-4 minutes in a cold 35mph wind-fumbling with cold hands, over stuffed pockets and my only air cartridge audibly depressurizing.

The last big 8 mile descent was much rougher, sketchier and scarier. Several rude people I'd dropped flew past drifting through the bumpy corners at speeds I wouldn't do on pavement. They don't count either.

Eventually the pavement returned with 5 rolling miles to the finish. Up the road I acquire a good target-another master with better downhill skills. In two miles I was doing most of the work pulling us up to a group of four when he attacked me! Sneaky old bastard! He came back but the die was cast.

We were in 13th and 14th position in the 40+ category so it seemed silly-but- he slowed, I slowed.

Minutes later we entered the vineyard, leaned into a screaming downhill only to slam on the brakes as we were abruptly directed back onto the final 2 mile 'cross course of death by a loud bell ringing blonde. She was pointing at a vertical wall. Imagine an 8' tall red clay cinder block wall leaning just slightly away from you followed by 100 yards of 45 degree "finish you off" hill. "Go old guys!" she screamed. Side by side scrambling up the climbing wall I noticed my companion set his jaw and grind his teeth in anger. "How could she tell?" was all I could think of to say. Side by side the top of the hill turned into another hill but paved. HIs 'cross skills were better. We had both changed to the small ring at the base but he still had it in the 11 when he jumped on his bike and proceeded to fall over. One second back I chuckled, jumped on my bike and almost fell over too. "Go old guys!"

Paging Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina.

Over the pickle and through the woods we battled back and forth. He dropping me on the technical stuff, me grinding back and passing on the grassy hills. He'd pass me with superior dismounts and remounts while I had the superior skills of bruising trees and ramming marker posts.

Eventually he crossed the finish line a second or two ahead of me to take 13th in the "Old Guy" category. Well done. We kept the race honest to the end.

Ed was standing with a gaggle of grinning racers who finished well ahead and said he loved every bit of it except having to stop twice and squirt more green sponge to keep his tire going. Tubeless seems to be the way to go-that and losing 14 pounds.

Half an hour later, "angry tank" Jayson unloaded his bike from a pickup truck. His chain mysteriously broke at the bottom of Springer Mountain half-way into the race. He was understandably in a black mood but vowed to redeem himself the next day on the Doc Holiday road race (which he did) and at next years Southern Cross Extreme 'Cross race. Ed and I also vowed to return but I assure you Mr. Dobalina will not.

Kerry Duggan