A Race to Absurdity

Behold! A flying fart!

The year was 2000 something and I was fresh-faced and wide-eyed with wonder about all things mountain biking. I’d read about Whistler’s Crud 2 Mud ski/snow/mountain bike race and my curiosity was piqued. A snowboard race that morphed into a DH race? Costumes optional? Perfection! I donned my full-size whoopie cushion aboard the Whistler Gondola, crammed in with others in skin suits and various degrees of creative costuming as we hovered our way up to the Roundhouse Lodge. I was about to test the aerodynamics of what was tantamount to a flesh-colored parachute heading down Whiskey Jack, Expressway, and eventually A-Line. It was pure chaos and it completely changed what I love about biking.

The first year I participated in Crud 2 Mud, I was out of my element. Whistler's competitors are FIERCE and do not mess around. I watched the tactics unfold while getting absolutely trounced by the other racers. Snowboarders brought ski poles to help scoot through the mushy sections. The race could be won or lost at the transition stage when you move from snow to bikes. Skiers always had to take off their boots, but some snowboard boots were just rubbery enough to work. One year I pioneered the duct tape effect where I wrapped my boots in thick loops of duct tape, and stabbed them against my flat pedals which made ride feel akin to being clipped in while wearing clown shoes. It was damn near perfection and even netted me a silver medal. This strange form of competition was my jam!

Mountain biking feels so...official these days, so in the words of the late, great Joker, “Why so serious?”

I went through a phase when I considered being serious, too. Once upon a time, I raced downhill bikes, and by “race” I mean I entered into downhill competitions and did not ride very fast, because it turns out I don’t actually know how to do that. Each time I dropped into a race run I’d pedal my face off with intentions of hitting the podium, but then I’d recognize someone cheering on the sidelines and say hello as I rode by breathless, or I’d see the photographer and I’d smile, maybe try to wave, and probably crash. I vividly remember racing the Pro GRT in Port Angeles while a dude on the sidelines helicoptered me as I went by. That image is forever burned into my brain. Feel free to tap into Urban Dictionary if you need clarification on that term.

I put immense pressure on myself to try to land on the podium, but I rarely got there. Frankly, I just wasn’t able to level up when it mattered most, but I still wanted to be a part of the idea of racing so I tried to find a way to make it my own. I noticed all the fast people wore jerseys with their names on the back. My insecurities prevented me from getting a real race jersey so instead I found a Shawn Kemp jersey at Goodwill and figured that would suffice. You’d be amazed by how many people asked me if he was my father. In fact, people still ask me that question. Folks, I’m a white lady who’s 5’3” on a good day. I digress. This was during a time when the Sonics were still cool and the memory of an NBA franchise in Seattle was still somewhat fresh (thanks for nothing, Howard Schultz). I started showing up in all kinds of weird “race kits,” my favorite being a child-sized Ricky Bobby Wonderbread skinsuit. If you ain’t first you’re last, and I was usually last on the timesheet, but I was definitely having a ton of fun mixing a bit of silly with racing.

I wanted to scratch the itch that Crud 2 Mud created so I sought out more unconventional events. I took part in my first Alley Cat race around 2009, loving the mix of strategy, scavenger hunting, and wayfinding. In 2010 I was invited to race in what was called The Gravity Experiment taking place on Halloween in Bellingham. It was a good old-fashioned klunker race. No suspension allowed. Coaster brake mandatory. I found a shitty Schwinn cruiser that met the criteria, slapped a Transition Bike Company sticker on it to jive with the locals, wore my best Axl Rose costume, and made my way north.

I met up with about 20 other weirdos dressed in all kinds of questionable attire: dudes in very skimpy drag, a pirate, a robot, a taco, and someone riding with a pumpkin on their head. We piled into the back of a rented U-Haul and rumbled in the darkness to the top of the hill. One by one we raced our way down one of Bellingham’s most prolific trail networks. It was my first time ever riding a klunker and it was a stupid amount of fun trying to master my foot position with braking. I crashed an ungodly amount of times as riders flew past me in their absurd outfits. It was a battle of staying upright and heckling your friends on the way down. I fell in love with Bellingham and that wondrously odd community that day. So in love that I ended up moving there. They loved bikes, loved racing against the grain, and loved combining the two.

On a birthday a few years ago, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Instead of throwing a huge bash or heading to some exotic location, I hosted my very first alley cat race—a hybrid mountain bike/urban challenge. The only rules were that riders had to choose one bike to use for the entire event and no e-bikes were allowed. Half the race took place on Galbraith Mountain and half throughout downtown Bellingham. The manifest had about 25 checkpoints and it was impossible to complete all the tasks, so strategy was key. I can’t express the sheer hilarity and joy I found each time I’d run into a team mid-ride covered in face paint, wearing something absurd, and probably in the middle of some questionable task. It was the start of something wild.

That race has garnered a bit of a cult following in Bellingham. It’s as far from serious as you can get, but it’s a seriously good time. This past Halloween we had nearly 200 riders "competing.” We offered a hefty cash purse, and prizes for best costume, best trick, best crash, and best feat of strength. We had an airbag to hit, an ocean to swim in, pumptracks to pump, on-mountain trick or treating, a stop where riders eat ice cream and get a slap to the face while consuming it, and a bar known for being frequented by serial killers. It brings people out of the woodwork for one day each fall and it’s become my favorite day of the year.

When I was looking out at the crowd of people smiling and milling around about to start the Alley Cat last October, I thought back to that first Crud 2 Mud and how all those years ago I was one of those people seeking something just for the fun of it. Something that built camaraderie, brought the fun back to biking and made me want to be a part of something unique, while still participating in the sport I love most. It feels like the essence of riding and community and to me, that’s what makes riding bikes so special.

There are many things to love about biking, but its universal language as something that brings joy to people is what matters most to me. Bikes don’t have to be the same for all people. Whether you want to race, ride after-work hot laps or use your bike as a creative way to commute—it’s all good. For me, I want the rush of racing without the pressure of winning. I want to moon my best friend while they’re hitting a big rock roll being roared at by someone dancing around dressed as a tiger. It makes no sense at all and that’s the feeling I chase on a bike—pure nonsensical euphoria. Yah, I know I’m weird, but I I’m not the only one likes to party to a different song. So, show me what you’ve got. Give me your wackiest bike experiences and I’ll meet you there dressed as human-sized whoopie cushion with a whiskey-filled squirt gun ready to annihilate whatever absurd competition you can throw my way. Let’s go!