The cold of the morning was expected. It was after all still March in the mitten. I had gone through all of my pre-race rituals. My bike was far too clean. My coffee had far too much sugar and my legs shaved far too smooth (I don’t know why this is one of my rituals, especially before cold weather races where my legs are fully covered anyway, but whatever, everybody has their thing…right?). Another common occurrence is the presence of very slow, somber music for the drive to the race venue. Most people like to get pumped up with heavy metal or rap, you know, something that gets them worked up. I once heard that Jeff Jacobi plays “Eye of the Tiger” at max volume before every race.
Not me. I prefer some mellow jazz, folk or blues. Something nice and chill that gets my heart rate close to that of a Blue Whale. So there I was, cruising down M37 enveloped in the raucous musical stylings of Mississippi John Hurt when suddenly I realized that there was a line of cars both in front of and behind me, all with bikes on the roof, trunk or shoved in the back seat. So I began honking and waving at these strangers like a giddy little school girl. Some did not take notice as I am sure their eardrums were being pierced by a Neil Peart drum solo. Or perhaps they were rethinking the amount of embrocation they had applied and if maybe they got a little too close to the, ummm, chamois zone with it. But most people shared in my enthusiasm and honked or waved back before visually inspecting my bike, judging wether or not I was going to be a threat to their dirt road dominance. This was not the first time that I had experienced this type of wonderful pre-race commute comradery with total strangers. In fact it was all very reminiscent of the yearly pilgrimage up 131 on the first Friday of November for this little race from Kalkaska to Traverse City. That is when it hit me. Pardon my French, but the Barry-Roubaix is a big fuckin’ deal! In six short years Rick Plite has brought this event from 288 racers congregating at the Long Lake Outdoor Center to 2800 (holy shit) racers, over 1000 spectators and nearly 300 volunteers completely inundating the town of Hastings. Lets face it, that is the most people that some of the town folk will ever see in one place at the same time…ever.
The days leading up to the race this year were a bit different than last year. A decent thaw meant that we would not be skating up and down the three sisters with our ass cheeks clenched firmly around the nose of our saddles. In fact there was enough mud to cause more than a few racers to get a more intimate view of the backroads of Barry county. I, of coarse went through the same mental stress as most, trying to decide what tires on what bike with what gears to bring. In the end I chose to stick with my trusty 616 single speed with a set of 700×40 Kenda Happy Medium cross tires. Gearing was my biggest dilemma and after scouting the course the night before, realizing the softness of the terrain, I decided to gear down a bit the night before. This was a very wise decision. Come race time the course was the consistency of almond butter.
Quickly I realized that I had far too much pressure in my tires. At times I literally turned to slap the hand of the person holding on to the back of my saddle. I was digging into the muddy road surface quicker than Matt Remelts jumps at a free pickle offering. But I couldn’t bring myself to stop and let air out. I was on a single speed. I was carrying some decent momentum and there were a few sections of pavement where the extra PSI would really come in handy. So, I suffered a bit in the mud, but gained some serious ground on the pavement. About 10 miles from the finish I felt my legs cramping. Not really a “oh shit I just touched my testicle to an open electrical current” crippling type of cramp, but more of a “no Rob, we don’t really want you to stand all the way up this climb” kind of cramp. Keeping this in mind and knowing what the final mile had in store, I decided to conserve just a bit for the last stretch. As we veered not onto the familiar course of last years race I heard multiple, muffled explicatives pass the lips of those that obviously did not keep up on the latest race news. Back onto the last stretch of pavement and we were staring up the last long climb. I downed the last few drops of Heed in my bottle, punched at my thighs, wiggled my calves loose(ish), and stood hard on the pedals. On my way up I could not help but laugh out loud at the man cursing the climb “What the fuck is this horse shit?”. To which I gleefully replied “It’s the Barry-Roubaix!”
I have said it before and I will say it again, the Barry-Roubaix is my favorite race and it gets better every year. Rick and Cathy Plite and Scott “Muff Daddy” Tencate really do an outstanding job organizing this epic race. The after-party alone is worth coming to downtown Hastings for. The Founders beer flowed freely (for a price ;)), the cheapest post race brews ever; 3-16oz for $10!
delicious pork sandwiches, tacos, pizza, music by Sweet J, a couple thousand of your closest cycling friends and a bicycle riding bear in a bikini!
What more could one ask for.
Founders Racing, as always, made their presence known on the podium. Well done to you all!
– Rob Meendering
Men Open 62 mile with 166 competitors
Earl Hillaker 54th in open class 3:24
Shawn Crowley 85th in open class 3:39
Ralf Sharnowski 111th in open class 3:56
Josh Hogeterp 116th in open class 4:00
Master’s men 62 mile with 110 competitors
Dennis Murphy 98th place 4:36
Single speed 62 mile 22 competitors
Jeremy Karel 10th place 3:34
Founder’s 62 mile team 9th of 14 teams
Men Age 38-39
Matt Remelts 14th place of 75 2:05
Men age 45-47
Ernie Stafford 78th place of 117 2:45
Men age 53-54
Brad Bacon 31st of 57 2:33
Paul Popielarz 36th of 57 2:35
Jane VanHof 5th place of 41 2:20
Marnie Tencate 3rd place of 58 2:23
Men singlespeed with 48 racers