by Bettina Freese

Where are all the downhilling chicks at?
If I was looking for more girls in at The Icycle in Fontana this past February, I know the guys were wondering where we all were. Then again, the guys are probably used to the absence of women at mountain biking events.

All I can say is…you girls missed out!
Practice runs began at 5:30 p.m., which our cabin full of bikers unanimously chose to skip. It didn’t take much convincing. I snuggled back down into my sleeping bag and scarfed another bowl of chili. We were finally warm, dry, and fed after riding the muddy cross-country race earlier that day through icy streams and a veil of snow. “We’ve got two runs tomorrow,” my friends said. “Your first run will be practice enough.”

The next morning, when we went outside to check our bikes, we discovered that all moving bicycle parts had now been soldered together into a thick mass of ice and mud. We schlepped the bikes into the kitchen and lovingly rubbed them with warm towels until the linoleum floor was completely puddled in mud. Wouldn’t mom be proud?

Then we loaded up our bikes and hopped aboard the shuttle to the race start. As the truck lurched forward and up the icy road I grabbed somebody’s full-face helmet to prevent flying out of the open back door. I would find other ways to embarrass myself throughout the day.

I was a bit intimidated by the amount of gear everyone wore-elbow pads, shoulder pads, knee pads, jerseys with pads. I wondered if my layers of six shirts, a sweatshirt, long raincoat, and cargo pants would be enough for the seemingly inevitable carnage. We sludged up a short climb, pushing our bikes through the snow to the race start, huddling around a fire barrel until our names were called. I listened to horror stories from past races and met the handful of women racers. We were such a novelty that we gathered for a group photo.

Racers shot off the start box and into the night, their headlamps barely illuminating a tiny patch of snow as they disappeared around the first bend amidst our screams of encouragement.

I tore myself from the warmth of the fire and mounted for my turn. A malfunction with the start clock caused me a ten-minute shiver as they waited for the girl before me to finish and reset the clocks. This did nothing for my nerves or body temperature. The officials laughed when they heard this was my first downhill race and assured me every race after this point would be easy. The girl behind me intervened, bragging that this was the easiest course of the series. I did not hit her.

Three, two, one….Go! I shoved off at a tortoise-startling speed, barely rolling and dropping from the box. My lights pointed in two different directions, illuminating the sky and a tree or two off to the right. The ball of ice on my left cleat prevented me from clipping into my pedal. I rounded the first bend, squinting into the dark and fumbling to straighten my lights. The crowd did not roar. I could feel their quizzical looks burning onto my mud-splattered back.

I cleared the first section and hit the icy road, the tiki torches guiding me to the second singletrack. I dropped in, swerving through the slick trail, testing my traction. I pushed into the big ring for more speed just in time for the trail to climb. Excuse me, but isn’t this a downhill race?! I looked for the middle ring again, but no. Both deraileurs were frozen. I stood up to push my jelly legs – torqued from the afternoon cross-country race. I gained a little confidence, and pushed a little harder. That’s when my rear wheel hit an ice patch and took me out. I tried to curse, but my face was buried in snow, my precious seconds ticking away.

“Are you okay?” somebody shouted from behind a tree. Great. Witness to my humiliation. I hadn’t even gotten to the technical part.

I turned a corner for the steep rock garden slickened with snow and tried not to hesitate. A group of bystanders surprised me with their screams: “Go faster!” I gritted my teeth. I cleared the rock garden by hovering over the back wheel, my saddle in my stomach. I tried to get back over the saddle, which was now hooked beneath the back of my long raincoat.

Switchback, switchback, cheers…I could see the finish line with the van and cheering racers safe from their ride. I pushed harder, standing up in the pedals for my finish, only to wipe out again. “Ohhhhhhhh!” the crowd moaned. I lifted my face from the frozen ground and extended my arm to a finish line that I could not reach.

“Run!” I heard them scream. I bellyflopped onto the saddle and coasted across the finish, airplane fashion, looking for an alternate trail to hide on. No such luck.

But that’s okay, I thought. I’ve got another run. I laughed this one off with the other racers who, happy with their finish, would return to the warmth of their cabin. This is fun! I reminded myself, finally warm from the exertion of getting on and off my bike so many times.

I headed back up for more humiliation. The crowd or racers had thinned to a third. I hopped back on, and took off again, this time, my lights pointing in the right direction, my feet safely in the pedals. I felt good. I hit the road, knowing now I could push harder when suddenly my lights blinked out. I fumbled in the utter darkness, hearing a terrible rubbing and crunching from my chain. I smacked the lights to no avail. I pressed on, remembering the 12-hour race, also at Fontana, also without lights, that I finished by the light of my girlfriend’s bike ahead of me. Except this time, there was nobody out there to help. And if there was, I wanted them far behind me.

No gears, no lights, no padding…I dropped down onto the second singletrack, hoping the ice would somehow illuminate my way. I trolled along anticipating the person behind me mowing me down when I realized there was no way I could maneuver the rock garden without profuse bleeding. I stamped back up the slippery trail as two more riders passed me, referring to me as “he.” At least I was somewhat anonymous. I found the road and realized my battery had flown off my bike to Neverland. I coasted down the treacherous icy road to the finish line, and morosely reported my 20-minute finish.

Despite utter humiliation and complete failure, I loved every minute of it. The all-out adrenaline of downhill racing was a new experience for me, and if nothing else, I provided some entertainment for the shivering spectators along the course.

I can’t wait to try it again.

Bettina Freese’s best mountain biking skills are her blind passion, her reckless abandon, her love for Highland Gaelic Ale, and her propensity to wear pigtails.