Two weeks, two races, two states

The past fortnight has been fast-paced and filled with much travel. After returning from Puerto Vallarta I had just enough time to get a haircut, go for one ride (or did I?), survey the situation of my backyard project, and pack for two consecutive trips—and then I was off to the airport, once again. 

The first of the two races that I had been assigned to was a UCI downhill event in New Jersey, a state that I had never visited (although I had flown through Newark once or twice). Longtime readers know that generally I cannot be the chief referee for an international UCI race because of the rule changes something like 12 years ago when we had to make a decision whether to continue as Doping Control Officers or International Commissaires (referees). I had chosen pee-control, and since then my assignments on an international level have no longer included refereeing. But, for the Mountain Spring National Downhill event in Vernon, NJ, the UCI could not find an active UCI IC and USA Cycling suggested me for the position since I do have the credentials and the experience to lead such an event as what is called President of the Commissaires Panel, or PCP for short. And so I was going to New Jersey, on behalf of the Union Cycliste Internationale.

Mountain Creek Resort, as seen from my room

After my arrival in Newark on Wednesday evening (and a bit of waiting in the airport) I was picked up by Julie, who had been on two of my national championship crews over the past few years. She was going to be the Secretary for this race, and having worked Mountain Creek on several occasions she was abe to fill me in on some of the details during our hour-and-a-half long drive to Vernon and the ski resort where we were going to stay for the next few nights.

It's a bit crazy when you are at a ski resort and you go to the top and there is a sign that tells you that the elevation is a whopping 1,440 feet. Well, you see, Lubbock is at 3,000 feet (1,000 meters), and of course the terrain is flatter than a pancake in our parts! So, here we have a ski resort at half that elevation, and there is a bike park with a vast network of downhill trails. It's a bit tough to wrap your head around this when you call Lubbock home.

On Thursday, a gloriously sunny and perfect spring day, I familiarized myself with the venue and went for a course walk with the race director, Clay. I was glad that I had addressed certain race-related issues ahead of my arrival, and so there were no misunderstandings regarding expectations versus reality. Being the chief referee doesn't just involve assuring that the sporting side is without fault but also that applicable rules and regulations are respected, and sometimes a race can become a headache well before the first rider has left the start gate. Thankfully, the 2023 edition of the Mountain Spring National Downhill did not follow this pattern.

To get to the top of Mt. Vernon, from where all of the various ski and bike trails of the resort radiate, one doesn't take a traditional ski lift or gondola. No, this is the one and only place in the world where you take the cabriolet to the top! It's not quite the roadster that the European-sounding name suggests; rather, it is an open "bucket" in which one stands during the short 7-minute ride to the top. There used to be several cabriolets in existence, used by ski resorts to take people from parking lots to the actual lifts, and this one started its life at the Canadian resort of Mont Tremblant before finally being sold, disassembled, and transported to Mountain Creek Resort to live out its days. Truly unique and the last of its kind: the cabriolet at Mt. Vernon.

The flip-flops are handy for the many heel-wearing
wedding participants who also have to take the cabriolet to the top

My few days at the resort were fairly easy as the race organization and my crew pretty much handled all the tasks, from handing out credentials to lining up and starting the riders to generating results. A well-oiled machine that simply needed a token head-of-state who enjoyed being in such a pretty place. Thanks to the lack of restaurants in the area, one of the local commissaires, Gary (who lives just an hour away across the stateline in New York), and I went to the local watering hole, The George Inn, on three consecutive nights for dinner and drinks. The George dates back to 1872 and is styled after proper English pubs. The food was decent and the local draft craft beers were fairly priced at $5 to $6 for a pint, so we were rather happy. If you find yourself in these parts, check out the George's liquor store section, which has an amazing array of spirits and artisanal beers.

From current national champions ...

... to the future of the sport.

Daily marshals meeting with the organizer, Clay

Hoppy Hour on Gary's balcony

After the conclusion of the race Sunday afternoon the race announcer, Matt, gave me a ride back to the Newark airport, where I spent the night in a Holiday Inn so that I'd be able to catch an early flight back to Texas. I had been scheduled to arrive in Lubbock around 4 p.m., but thanks to a weather-related delay in DFW (involving a return to the terminal to take on more fuel) and then another 25 minutes' wait in Lubbock for a ground crew to receive our plane I didn't get home until around 7 p.m. As mentioned, I had pre-packed most of my stuff for the following day's departure, but a few things (mostly race related) always have to still be added.

Current First Class breakfast option 

Waiting for the Lubbock ground crew to finally receive us

Monday morning at 9 a.m. I was on my way back out to the airport. The weather was beautiful for flying, and everything was smooth and on-time—until we rolled out onto the tarmac and sat there for almost an hour while the captain sought a solution for some mechanical problem (which eventually was solved). The delay was long enough for me to miss my connection to Washington's DCA, where my friend Jared was going to pick me up. A call to AA while we were still sitting on the ground in Lubbock netted me one of the last seats on the 3:30 p.m. DFW-DCA flight, and when I eventually arrived in DFW I could leisurely go to the lounge and get a bite to eat and enjoy a drink or two. But you know how it goes: By the time that our flight was loaded and ready to push off the gate, another mechanical issue sabotaged our on-time departure. I can't remember how long this repair took (plus all the paperwork that is needed for documentation), but when we were finally ready to depart the gate a thunderstorm had moved in and lightning prevented the ground crew from operating the jetbridge. If it ain't one thing, it's another. Eventually we departed, a couple of hours behind schedule. And wouldn't you know, some situation at DCA closed the airport for about another 20 minutes to all incoming traffic. We kept circling until we were finally cleared to land, about six hours after my originally scheduled arrival.

Needless to say, I had been in touch with Jared all along, and as a fellow official he knows about the unpredictability of air travel. Still, having three flights in two days severely delayed, two of them by mechanical issues, was enough for me to send off an email to American, which eventually resulted in my being credited 17,000 miles. That may sound like a lot, but with airmiles generally being valued at one cent per mile, $170 is merely a token. As my brother would later tell me, a delay of these proportions in Europe would result in enough euros for another flight.

Morning neighborhood walk with
Jared, Wayne, Gretchen, and Betty Joe, the Beagle

The race for which I had traveled back to the East Coast was going to take place about six hours south of the DC area in Virginia. Jared (whom I had met for the first time last year at Nationals when he was our finish judge) had suggested that I'd come out a few days early and that we then would drive down to the race site. I had spent a couple of days last September with Jared and his roomate, Wayne, in their rental house in University Park, MD, and I gladly accepted the invitation.

We spent early Wednesday working on our respective computers. Jared is a civil engineer who works most days remotely (making it a little easier to travel to races), and I still had to finish off UCI-related paperwork from the previous weekend. Later that afternoon we drove a few miles to the Greenbelt Park where one of the oldest still-running weekly training series takes place. Jared is generally the chief referee for this low-key event that attracts about 100 to 130 racers every Wednesday night in May and June, and which Jared wants to build up to an all-summer affair. It was interesting to watch how just a few local officials and helpers put on such an enduring and well-liked event.

On Thursday, after doing some work on the laptops, we headed out for an afternoon excursion to Annapolis, which is only about 45 minutes away from University Park. During the drive I noticed that there seemed to be a lot of pollution in the sky, but I figured that big-city traffic was the culprit. But once we got to Annapolis it became clear that the haze was something else, and as we later learned it was the smoke from the hundreds of Canadian wildfires that would haunt the entire East Coast for the next week in unprecedented ways.

Jared is a history buff, and he enjoyed playing tour guide for me. We found a parking spot close to the water, and for several hours we walked through Annapolis and the grounds of the Naval Academy. Jared pointed out part of the course of one of the larger races that he has worked here many times, and I enjoyed walking along the waterfront, despite the smoke that started to affect our eyes. To add insult to injury, the entire town suddenly lost all electricity and we didn't even have a chance to have a beer in a brewpub because neither one of us had any cash and the credit card machines didn't work. As a matter of fact, most shops and restaurants had simply closed for the rest of the afternoon. Let's not tell those cyber-attackers how vulnerable we have become!

Friday morning it was time to pack the car and head down the 250 miles to the race site in Virginia. Hazy skies accompanied us for at least half of the distance, severely affecting the vista of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Still, it was a pretty drive that went smoothly, except a car losing a mountain bike right in front of us at 75 mph and us missing the bouncing bike by inches. We were able to alert the driver a few miles down the interstate—he and his passenger hadn't even noticed that one of their bikes was missing. Not a good way to start your weekend.

Back in bubba country

Once we had turned off I-81 and followed the winding State Highway 29 the skies finally cleared up. Time to celebrate with a quaff at one of numerous microbreweries along this route. Devil's Backbone Basecamp Brewpub was one of the larger (and more commercial) establishments, but they were open when we drove by, and Jared had planned this stop all along. Properly refreshed we drove the remaining miles to Danville's Angler's Park, the site of the UCI C3 mountain bike race to which we had been assigned. We introduced ourselves to the organizer, David, and then embarked on a course inspection of both the 1-mile short-track and the 3-miles cross-country courses. Thanks to a defective "serpentine belt," my old friend Justin, who was the PCP for this race, was stuck somewhere between his home in South Carolina and Danville, so Jared and I stood in. Well, I was the APCP (Assistant PCP) anyhow, in charge of the amateur events, and so I felt justified to charge for the course inspection. Nice to get paid for a beautiful walk in the forest!

David had rented a ridiculously expensive Airbnb in downtown Danville for the crew. When he had sent us the Airbnb information a couple of days ahead of the race it had become clear that the two-bedroom apartment would be fine for two people but not four unrelated adults, of whom two were females—the two pull-out couches in the living room weren't even that, and with no private workspace Jared could have never fulfilled his secretarial duties, which involve late-night computer work to create startlists and upload results in the correct format. So, David had rented a hotel room for Vicki and Amy, who had flown to Raleigh/Durham earlier in the day and then driven a rental car to Danville. Well, the hotel (which had receive an inexplicable 4.9 out of 5 on Expedia) turned out to be of such iffy quality that David had to put up the two females of our USAC crew in a different place. It was all a pretty big mess.

When people hear "UCI race" they immediately have visions of productions equalling World Cups and the Grand Tours. Well, let me tell you, that's not always the case. Being inscribed as a UCI race means that the organizer is expected to provide a hefty prize-list, that the required officials (who usually don't live close-by) are hired, and that UCI regulations are supposed to be followed to a T. Ideally, lots and lots of professional riders will flock to the event and pay their entry fees, and the amateur racers will coattail. At least that's the hope and desire of every race director. David runs a well-respected race series on the east coast, but like so many smaller organizers he tries to do too many things himself and doesn't delegate as much as needed. A certain lack of understanding what the UCI expectations are further hampers the entire production. Under these circumstances, it was rather impressive that we were able to start every race on time and that the results were error free at the end of the day. Our crew of five (Justin, who eventually made it to Danville in a rental car, was responsible only for the UCI categories and not the amateurs) worked an extremely chaotic and hectic Saturday, while Sunday was a breeze since fewer than 75 (!) pros in total started in the cross-country events that day. We all felt kinda sorry for the race director who had had to spend literally thousands of dollars on the officiating crew when two officials could have run the show by themselves, with ease.

Our Airbnb was located right above a small Burger & Beer joint with fair prices and good fare. The same could not be said for a wanna-be Mexican restaurant that turned out to be the only food option on Sunday night. Saturday, the entire crew had a mixed food experience at Bricktown Brewery. Lunches were Subway sandwiches on both race days, and breakfasts, well, there were overpriced sandwiches at the one-and-only Starbucks in town, and the Piggly Wiggly provided French bread and bologna. But nobody has ever said that working bike races is guaranteed to result in superior culinary experiences.

Even at dinner Jared was massaging data

Monday morning, Jared and I loaded the car and drove back north, this time on a slightly different route through Richmond. With enough time before I had to be dropped off at the DCA airport, we had a final beer at Brew Republic Bierwerks in Woodbridge, another one of those well-funded, modern watering holes in a new, totally artificial shopping area surrounded by newly built cookie-cutter townhomes that sell for $750,000. It was time to go home.

Washington Monument and Capitol seen from the new
Admiral's Club at DCA's Terminal E

Jared had been conservative in calculating the time needed to get to DCA, and so there was enough time for me to leisurely check in and enjoy one of AA's newest lounges in Terminal E. My flights had been upgraded, and for once they were on time so that I made it home a little before midnight, after much travel during the preceding two weeks. It felt good to finally be back in my own bed.

Jürgen