Questions? Comments? Contact us! cycling [at] blackpagepress dot com.

By Kurt Gensheimer

I had never been to Reno, Nevada before, and when I heard the 1998 Collegiate National Mountain Bike Championships were going to be held there, I was stoked. We had made all the arrangements and were ready for the race, which was to be held the first weekend in November. My teammate Alex and I left at 4AM from Bloomington, IN to catch a nonstop flight from Chicago Midway to Reno. We were driving on Interstate 65 North at about 5:30 when the weekend from hell began.

As we rolled along in Alex’s beat up 1986 Dodge Caravan still half asleep, a deafening explosion rocked the van, and Alex almost lost control of the wheel. He managed to keep the rubber side down, what was left of it, and pulled to the side of the Interstate. It was pitch black and 25 degrees out with 18 wheelers blowing by us at 70 miles an hour. Our timeline was already tight, and the blown tire setback was going to catch us in Chicago rush hour traffic. A state trooper pulled in behind us as a false sense of security from the massive semis as we changed the flat and got on our way.

We cursed, cut people off, ran red lights and made illegal turns, but finally made it to Midway with only a half hour to spare. We got on the flight and were able to relax for the next four hours. Once we arrived in Reno, our bike boxes were pulverized. Broken tape, holes, and bent corners indicated that the baggage handlers were not too happy with transporting our massive cardboard boxes. Besides a sliced tire sidewall, nothing was broken.

We got to the hotel, unpacked, and scoped the place out. The race was being held at Mount Rose ski resort, which was at an elevation of 9,000 feet between Reno and Lake Tahoe. People had been taking shuttles from the Reno Hilton up to Mount Rose to pre-ride it, and everyone said the course was killer. There was only one issue, and quite frankly, an issue that should have been at the top of the race promoter’s mind before selecting Mount Rose as the venue – the weather. The Sierras are notorious for getting wicked snowstorms as early as September, so who was the genius that thought a race at 9,000 feet in November was going to be a good idea?

Sure enough, the next morning rain was coming down in sheets outside our hotel room window.

“You think they’re going to call the race?” I asked Alex.
“I hope so. It’s probably dumping up there.”

Despite reports at the top of Mount Rose of 100 mile per hour wind gusts and snow falling at a 2 inch per hour clip, the officials still required everyone to go up. I packed every piece of warm clothing I had and reluctantly boarded the bus with my bike in a following truck. After an hour of trudging up the mountain in whiteout conditions, we made it to Mount Rose. It was ridiculous. I felt like we were the Donner party. There was over a foot of snow on the ground, yet they were still contemplating the race. I decided to try and attempt to ride, but it was hopeless. If the deep powdery snow didn’t keep you from moving, the howling wind and driving snowfall surely did. After five minutes, I turned back. The situation was absurd. I entered the warm lodge and waited with my six teammates.

“What kind of mental midgets drag 300 people up here to sit in a lodge in the middle of a frigging blizzard?”
“I don’t know, but I heard they’re still running the race,” responded Alex.

“Bullshit! It’s impossible out there, man.” For the next three hours we sat and waited in our fully eskimoed racing attire. What we were waiting for I have no idea, but the snow was not going to let up. We had eaten all our food, drank our water, and the tiny lodge was packed to the gills with overdressed and anxious mountain bikers. Finally the race officials found their brains and called the race. They were rescheduling it the following day at a county park on the West side of Reno.

We made our way out of the blizzard and pre-rode the backup course. It was only a three mile loop, and definitely not national championship caliber, but it favored my riding style and wasn’t at altitude, so I was looking forward to a good day of racing on Sunday.

The next morning we headed over to the race course and prepared for the start. Nearly 200 men lined up, and I got there early enough to be in the second row. The gun sounded and I was off. I hung on the wheel of Colorado’s Jeremy Horgan-Kobelski as long as I could, which was about 500 meters, before he dropped the field and rode to a convincing solo victory. Halfway through the race I was sitting in 15^th and felt great.            “Finally,” I thought to myself. “This weekend is starting to look up.” As soon as that thought registered in my brain, I felt the front end of my bike go flat.

I belted out a mighty spell of cussing, pulled off the trail and got to work on changing the flat as quickly as I could. I replaced the tube in less than two minutes, and right after I filled the tire with air, my rear wheel deflated instantaneously as if the invisible man had his finger on the head of my presta valve.

“YOU MUTHERF…” My cursing was so loud and intense that it caught the attention of the race emcee standing across the field at the finish line talking on the PA system.

“Well, it looks like we have a rider from Indiana who was in the top 20, but is now having some problems with his bike, and he doesn’t look happy.” The emcee walked across the field with his microphone. “Let’s go have a quick chat to see what happened.”

I was not in the mood for conversation at that point, especially with some bubbly race emcee.

“So, what happened out there?”
“Uh, I double flatted.”
“That’s a bummer! Sorry to hear it. You’re a Hoosier, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“You a big Bobby Knight fan?”
“I hate that asshole.”
“Well, okay! Looks like the rider from Indiana is a little upset. We’ll take it back to the finish line and…”

I dropped out of the race and went back to the hotel. The weekend was a complete and utter bust, and I was $500 poorer for it – a healthy sum for an unemployed college kid. We packed our gear and headed to the airport. I wanted to forget the entire trip ever happened. Just as I thought the worst race weekend of my life had come to an end, the airline had a little icing on the cake in store for us upon our arrival to Chicago – they lost our bikes.