SSCXWC26BHAM: WTF just happened?!?!
Photo: Cloe Spritz
Some races you train for. Some races you survive. SSCXWC26 in Bellingham was both, plus a bunch of stuff that doesn't have a word yet. We got baptized in a legend's ashes before the whistle, dodged six-foot inflatable snowballs, and took a Rainier or two to the head… and that was just race day.
Sound like a party? Yes! It was! What kind of party? Well, it was a bike race! Welcome to Single Speed Cyclocross World Championships, Bellingham edition.
Coming in, I had no idea what to expect. We talked the usual warm-up stuff: 42x18 or 42x19? Tire pressure? All the reasonable pre-race questions. Meanwhile, a band was playing Led Zeppelin to an audience of soon to be drunken idiots having the best time of their lives. Guess which one I was focused on.
Now, this isn't your typical ride report, but for the record: ~11 miles, ~1,400 feet, 8 beers, 4 Gu's, 5 Nutri-grain bars, and copious amounts of Oreos. Andrew steed of choice, a steel Sourdough, one of the sickest bikes out there, 42x18, tire pressure by vibes. I was on a CAADx that's been around the block and re-found its purpose, 42x19, tire pressure: not enough. Didn't matter anyway, since someone let the air out while we lined up for the Le Mans start. More on that act of war later.
Photo: Cloe Spritz
FOS DAY
Ever wanted to see a new city but didn't know how? Do a fucking alleycat. We got a manifest, a map of checkpoints, and seven hours to hit as many as we could. I saw more of Bellingham than I ever would have on my own: cutty back roads, the pump track, the boardwalk, hell, even part of the airport. Tourism board should hire these people.
Not knowing what FOS (Feats of Strength) was, I was thankful a teammate could break it down. It's a tradition at every SSCXWC, and a way of weeding down the pack, because who wants 251 riders on course at once? We had from 9am to 4:20pm (obviously) to knock out as many of the ~20 challenges as possible. It kicked off with a fire truck escorting 350 costumed riders to Waterfront Park, where a pump track was full of innocent kids trying to enjoy their Saturday morning. (Nice to see kids not glued to Saturday morning cartoons.) Let's just say we took everyone by surprise, and I'm sure a few kids hit their parents with some left-field questions on the drive home.
The rapid-fire version of the challenges: love/hate letters to USAC, beach obstacle course, sharpie knuckle tats, bike jumps over a chain-link fence, slingshots, wheelbarrow races, and a CX race on shit bikes while holding pumpkins.
Everything else boiled down to three categories: eat something you shouldn't, ride something you shouldn't, or jump into something you shouldn't. We jousted bike frames hanging from trees with metal poles, passed a Canadian citizenship test and immediately disgraced it with Katy Perry, and stripped to our bibs to backflip off the pier. We ate hot dogs while single handedly pedaling up a hill. Allegedly, by the time we showed up, I was the only guy all day to finish it, and the 15 punches that came with it are probably why I made the Winners Race.
But the eating category belongs to Andrew. With the clock running out and half way through a sleeve of Oreos, a dude pulls a day-old crawdad out of his bag and offers 10 points. Andrew pops it in and keeps eating Oreos. No hesitation. Pure instinct. A professional.
The day went by faster than your dad on an e-bike. But the party wasn't over. We still had to find out who made the Losers Race and who made the Winners Race, so we handled the nerves at Evil Bikes the responsible way: several more beers, loud as fuck music, a glizzy, and an oiled-up inflatable pool wrestling match to decide next year's venue. Chicago vs. Missoula, the first to pull off the other's sock. Missoula took it. Andrew and I both landed in the top 25 of 251 men. Winners Race, baby! The move now was to stay up late enough to knock yourself out, but not too late, ya hear? We have a race tomorrow.
RACE DAY
Race Day was at the quarry. An old quarry turned party grounds is not your typical choice for a bike race, but it should be. Saloon buildings, a pond, a main stage, forest everywhere, and, as we'd soon find out, a waterslide.
Before any of the chaos, things got quiet. The organizers took a moment to remember someone who'd shown up to literally every ride. Then a friend walked past the front row with a bag of their ashes, and before the whistle blew, we stood there and got showered in their remembrance [literally]. A hundred loud, half-drunk idiots, dead silent. Then it was time to race for them.
The start was Le Mans again, but meaner. About 100 of us got herded behind big wooden gates like the last stand at Helm's Deep, minus the armor. They fired up the smoke machine so you couldn't see a thing, the gates swung open, and we charged. Our bikes had been shuffled around like a shell game. When I finally found mine, both tires were softer than I remember. SUSPICIOUS! From there the course never let up.
Photo: Cloe Spritz
You hit a batch of soap bubbles that coat your brakes so everyone's squealing and nobody's stopping, then grind up the big climb lined with people cheering you on and flipping you off at the same time. Barriers in twos, then threes. Through a saloon town with a DJ and piles of hay that ate anyone dumb enough to bring a derailleur. Jumps, bumps, rocks, and a gap jump with Malort and Jameson hand-ups, because nothing says peak athletic performance like a shot of the worst liquors ever made.
Then the waterslide. The A-line. Hand your bike to a stranger, sprint over with your heart rate above 180 bpm (YEAH, I WORE A FUCKING HR MONITOR), someone dumps a bucket of water, and you launch into the pond and come up gasping for air. Andrew forgot to hold his breath on an early lap, then someone landed on top of him. He genuinely thought this was how it ended: drowning in a pond, in a bike race, in Bellingham. Up the stone steps through the woods, into the hot-box tent where you can't see your own hands, then Pirate Corner: sand, shredded red Solo cups, more shots, more party. Then back to the climb to do it all again.
Photo: Cloe Spritz
I was sitting third. I'd trained for this, racing single speed at Trophy Cup all season, and I was having the race of my life. Then on lap five or six (we were all so disoriented, who really knows where anyone was in this race), coming out of the gap jump into a hard right, I tried to pass on the bad line, clipped a rock with my front tire, and flatted. DNF. I was bummed, really bummed, until I remembered the true nature of the sport. Shit happens. Get over it, take a shot, cheer on your friends! And the guy who took my spot? Another PDX local, Anj. Hard to stay mad at that.
Portland won two of the three races: Chloe won the women's, and Robin, a former Mettle, won non-binary. Andrew finished fifth, we think, since results still aren't posted, because of course they aren't.
Winners took home the sickest tattoos and hand-carved beaver sculptures the organizers were whittling while we raced, because why would the trophies be normal?
NOW WHAT?
How do you go back to reality after that? Corporate suits aren't exactly receptive to "I drank seven kinds of alcohol this weekend, saw a to-go tupperware full of mushrooms, and watched oiled-up inflatable pool wrestling decide next year's venue." Debauchery. Utterly mind-boggling debauchery.
Will I go back? Absolutely, 100% yes. Next year, look for a better costume, better hand-ups, and, dead last on my list, a better finish. That's not the point. It's about embracing the chaos, soaking up the moment, taking a whip to the ass, and hearing your friends scream encouragement.
SSCXWC26BHAM was a weekend to remember, and the organizers, racers, and volunteers made this guy feel like part of a greater hive mind of joy.
Block your calendars. Send your PTO requests. See you next year, Missoula.
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