Kathmandu bike race

The event was well organized by Kathmandu Mountain Bikes and had chartered buses to the starting point a bit over an hour outside central Kathmandu. I met up with some fellas from Mountain Massif, where I had given my entry fee and the place where I take my bike to get serviced. We all mingled around chatting with whomever was there before growing bored of just waiting. They had the sense to stop in and fuel themselves up. I was called over and fed a glass of hot milk and the three bites of garbonzo beans. Sufficient it seemed for the time. And we were off.

I found a seat at the front of the bus while the other guys went straight to the back. A new situation with different Nepalis always has its mysteries. Who are they, where did they come from. I knew these guys had to be different than the average person I meet on the street who will ask endless questions about where I come from, how I learned Nepali, where do I work, can I get their relatives in to my school, and not to be deleted -- I should help them get to America. This group had paid the $6 fee for entrance to the race and most of them had their own mountain bikes that cost at least twice the per capita income of Nepalis (most Nepalis are subsistence farmers). We made small talk and I inquired about the race with the director, who sat next to me. Thirty-two kilometers, most of which is uphill. People will be placed at each area of potential confusion to guide the racers on the right track. I had ridden most of the course before, actually much longer starting from Kathmandu and returning to my apartment, and remembered it being really rocky, therefore bumpy, with steep inclines...it wasn't easy.

We drove slowly on the way to wait for the trucks carrying all the bikes. Two buses of racers had gone ahead and someone needed to wait for the bikes. I entertained the thought that the driver could take off with thousands of dollars worth of bikes and sell them, then live comfortably for years and years. I couldn't see it happening, but a thought. The slow pace of the trucks were a blessing in disguise as it allowed us to stop on three different occasions to relieve ourselves. A motley crew, dozens of us lined up alongside the bus, or spread out in fields to release a pressing need.

Upon arrival we were all given our numbers and participant t-shirts. While attaching my number I quickly found myself in the situation with a group of locals that would definitely have the ending question, "Help me get to America." It has become a pressing need in Nepal with the insurgency. Boys and men escape their villages to come to Kathmandu, where the population and crowding has become suffocating at time. Those lucky enough will get visas out of the country. Some will pay the Manpower employment agency $1000 to get them visas and jobs in the Middle East. Others will flock to Malaysia and South Korea (though SK has just made it law to immediately export all Nepalis overstaying their visa. SK has had a problem with Nepali athletes and such jumping boat and disappearing in to the countryside). The "lucky" ones will be off to Europe or the States. It's common knowledge that you can bribe employees if you are willing to part with $6,000, and that's the cheap rate. This kid had dreams of leaving and making money as well, and figured my white mouth spewing words in his language was power enough to enforce rules at the Embassy. My seeming expertise pleased the group enough to claim that bar none I would get "first position" in the race. I assured them it was a long, long shot, but they had their bets on me.

The race was to be a promotional event as well. An old chairman for the Nepali Olympic team gave the announcements. He had told me he was at the '84 olympics in L.A. Maybe he should be the one to talk to for the visa. Or, better yet, the employee for the American Embassy who was entered in the race as well. Regardless, we were there for show as well. The mayor of Panauti showed up late to inaugurate the race and wish us luck, yet.... wait. We were to ride 100 m and turn around so journalists could take our pictures and movie cameras could roll. We obliged and found ourselves in very new starting positions. After which the countdown from one minute started. We all chimed in for the last ten seconds and were off.

From the whistle a group of about 15 bolted out, jockeying for position. While keeping a decent pace myself I figured I'd have the best luck being the guy who starts slow and passes people on the uphill. I have always prefered my chances on uphill rather than down and straight. I understand pain and working through exhaustion, wrestling taught me that. Yet, I recalled the one other race I had been in in Nepal and how hard some of the uphills were. A good number of these racers are regular riders, and regular for me is a once a week two or three hour ride somewhere, or intermittent daily races against cars and motorcycles through the polluted streets of Kathmandu. So I took my time, let them pass, I thought.

At the end of the three kilometers of pavement and the beginning of the uphill I realized I was staying about even with the same number of people passing me that I passed. I looked at the huge Sherpa riding quickly in front of me. As I was thinking that with the bulging legs and proper biking clothing he'd be a contender, his chain promptly fell off. I didn't see him again until he arrived at the finish line. I rode at a heightened pace, but regulated enough to make sure I'd have energy for those important uphills. Who was I kidding? I suppose I just had hope that I'd catch continuous winds on the uphills.

After about 7 km I found myself in a group of three, one of the guys I recognized from another bike shop -- a middle aged Gurung guy with a series of earrings in his ears. A chiseled figure who I always see riding somewhere and looks 15 years younger than he is. The three of us rode close together, often changing positions by chance, but giving all of us a chance to lead and a chance to follow. Quietly we pedalled hard up the hills, over mud cracks in the road, and through the huge washouts coming over the road. After another five kilometers I wondered, "How far have we come in the race?"

"About ten kilometers," came the reply, and added, "seven up, 8 down, then seven up." My chest was already tight, such as it had been up in the mountains of our village stay, it worried me.

At this time I started cursing myself for staying out with friends at a restaurant until 9:30 before coming home. My neighbors were to leave the next day for India and I had said I'd stop by. I figured it would be a short visit where I could share the plum wine I had bought up in the mountains and go to bed quickly. Yet, one of them stayed later and the conversation was good enough to not kick her out. Only at 11:30 I gave my last goodbye and went to bed. I almost didn't wake up either. My alarm clock is being borrowed now and my watch alarm doesn't work. Good thing I have the habit of waking up with the sun and birds, despite sleepiness. And I started to curse myself for thinking two apples would tide me over through the race. After all they were Jomsom apples, and Jomsom apples are more sought after than Washington apples in the States.

So we continued, together. I was starting to feel good about myself being able to keep up with this guy that rides daily. The conditions of the road, mechanical and unexpected difficulties were going in my favor. Despite advice from others, I had felt I should let air out of my tires to better absorb the rough rode and prevent against punctures on the downhill. Yet, despite the discomfort (it's a bike race) we passed several people with punctures and fiesty chains. I rode a few seconds behind the other two as we neared a steeper incline. I had grown accustomed to not acknowledging villagers along the route in my focus. Yet, in the focus I kept thinking that I never ride this fast as I am always saying hello or stopping to talk to people. Then I looked up, thinking I should acknowledge at least through a smile, as we entered a village. An elder man walked down with his bull, kids lined the sides, and village men sat chatting with tea. As we crept up the hill the cow turned on the path and started for the leader of us three. I paused in my space as the bull got its horns through the space in a bike. I welcomed the rest and bolted when the path was free. Upon coming even with the bull it turned towards me, but I was safely in front. I passed the guy startled by the bull and offered, "You alright?"?

"Fine."

I felt tired already when reaching the top of the hill. Eight kilometers to the bottom. I knew it would be a quick ride, but also knew it would be tiring in its own way. Back in to the bottom of the valley after climbing out and climbing to a peak where people walk for a lookout. Trees roared by me on the side. I remember this path. Rocks jutting out, wheel and water ruts, a quick drop off to the side. I worried about my tires. Stop-jerk, let it fly on the straight away, absorb the bumps, screetching halts at the switch-backs. Damn my hands hurt from squeezing the brakes! Let it fly, rest lightly on the bike, then SQUEEZE. Enough for minor relief. I passed the elder Gurung who mentioned chain problems. I passed another guy taking it easy. Someone roared passed me that made me fear for his life. Yet, I'm conservative on the down. I've fallen on the down and had stitches before. No big deal, but want to finish......and the bottom. I didn't even have time to enjoy the view, the reward after a tough uphill!

I'd get my chance, though. We hit bottom and turned directly up as I noticed a voice fighting in me to walk for a while. I ignored it, I always do good in ignoring that voice. The Gurung guy passed me and a local elder asked, "You going to the top of the hill?!" "Yes," he replied.

"That's a hard trail to walk up!" he exclaimed.

ooooh hell, I thought. The old guy was true to his word. More inclined and rockier than the other road that leads to the same hilltop, and we were already 25 km in to the race.

I fought the urge to walk. I fought so hard. So, so hard. So hard. I inched up in first gear and let someone pass me. Pass me, I thought, now it's just me and the hill. Do what you will do. I inched for several kilometers, getting pessimistic when a long stretch opened up in front of me, and optimistic when a turn was in sight. A turn could mean anything, even flat for a while. I acknowledged the unlikelihood in this, but tricked myself in to believing by stopping my sight and thoughts at the turn. And it was always uphill, but I was stupid enough to keep believing. But it worked, for a while. I fought fatigue and the wall I had already run in to but was scratching and biting to get through. I lost it when a guy in front of me jumped off his bike. The pain hurt, I realized and stopped myself to drink some water and wonder at the trail. I was broken.

From there it was a series of fighting attempts to get my legs working, or walking the ride up while thinking I couldn't remember my legs hurting so bad on any trek I have taken here. Lactic acid all but seeped out the pores of my leg. Now I became intent on just going whether it be by foot or by pedal. Soon enough I rounded a corner and a video camera turned towards me. I remembered my boss saying that if I made it on the news he'd take me out to eat. Whether true or joking, I had to get on the news. I hop skipped and jumped on my bike just after the turn and fought on up towards the camera (just as you could see on the evening news). From a distance the voice behind the camera hurriedly asked, "How have you found the condition of the road," as a microphone found its way near my face. "Gaaahro chha" (It's hard), was all I could muster. I wanted so badly to say something witty, something to excite them about this "khuirey" (gringo) speaking their language, but the only words that came out were something any given tourist could say with a tiny bit of interest in the language. But they yelled after me as I headed up the hill. "Where do you work?"

"Pitzer College."

"How can I find you in the future?"

"Ask people, you'll find people that know."

I was getting anxious about people passing me for god knows what reason. Pass, pass, pass, I could be on tv. Guess I wanted to give my all and see where I ended up. As I jumped back on my bike I yelled back that since they filmed me they had better put me on the news. I got their assurance and they were true to their words. You could see me jump on my bike and ride towards them - cut - see me riding past them and cut just when I was getting off my bike to tell them they better put me on the news. And at the end in the group photo session you see me on the news ruffling my hands.

Just past the cameraman and around the corner I walked as a voice above me yelled, "The finish is right here!" Oh, joy! I picked up my walking pace and found my legs mostly non-functional. I walked and neared the finish line where I recognized a face encouraging me, "Come on, this is the finish, you have made it," all in elooooongated slooooow mooootion words. I know the face, that's the old marathon runner from Nepal who had placed in the Olympics and won over Asia time and time again. I looked back and saw a guy from a bike company 11 seconds behind. In an egotistical boost I jumped on my bike and pedaled for a total of 8 revolutions before jumping off to walk. As I leveled with the cheerer my fatigue asked, "Are you the marathon runner?"

A smile crept across his face as he said, "Yes," then added, "You made it." So I did. I jumped on my bike for the final switchback and rode on flat land for 15 meters to the finish line.

A group of three older men greeted me at the finish line: one placed a Buddhist scarf around my neck, another smeared red tika powder on my cheeks, and the other shaked my hand and congratulated me. My fatigue spoke up again and I asked the congratulater his name. I knew he must be important and would be a good contact for something or other. I wheeled back and came to rest near some people I knew where I promptly fell down cross legged and let my head fall with my eyes closed for 5 minutes. Upon regaining some posure I chatted with those around me and congratulated the Nepali girl sitting next to me who took 2nd place in her division. She smiled coyly. I then went to cash in on the food they promised.

Upon reaching the buffet they mentioned that I needed my bike number to get the food. I cursed the fact that I had to walk 25 m back to my bike to take off the number. I struggled to get it off, but finally had the ticket to my food. I had them pile on the meager sandwiches, chips, and took extra fruit. I devoured 4 sandwiches in less than a minute, my body aching for food and not being satisfied with the speed in which I was eating. I started to understand the meaning of inhaling food. But I had finished. I had taken the 17th position, but started to wonder if.......

Take away the late night and add breakfast and I may advance 5 places. Had I trained for a couple weeks I could take another 2. The first place finisher was an hour ahead of me, last place more than an hour behind me. I finished at the 40th per centile, ahead of 60%. The winner trains four hours a day and has raced in Asia and Europe. He said the course was easy and the competition weak. He was 12 minutes ahead of the 2nd place finisher, but 7 minutes behind his desired time for finish. A voice in me wants to start training, I wonder if I should heed.