Playing Dirty

Playing Dirty

BY KATHY BURNS

Addiction to mountain biking knows no barriers. It strikes beyond the young, the thin, and the studly. I am rolling proof. One look will tell you I don't exactly match the archetype. As a 48-year-old "femme fossil," I will never be thought of as a climbing stick. There are so few racers like me competing that I barely ever have the luxury of an age bracket, much less a Clydesdale class for females. That leaves me in the perennial dust as the 20-something spring chickies sprint off in front of me. By race's end I'm generally a little further off the back each year, but I finish and finish and finish.

What possesses me? (Believe me, I ask myself this every race.) Mostly I feel proud. Proud, strong, and healthy, appreciated for my independence. If I ignore the creaks and the scar tissue, my body is vigorous and resilient. It seems I get in better shape each year.

I have to--I feel the pressure of the younger women coming up at me from the veteran class. Most of them are my friends and can bury riders far younger than they are. One did so last year while her twin 2-year-old granddaughters cheered her on. I was thrilled for her. There is a camaraderie among women mountain bikers: We're so glad to see any woman step up to the line that we tend to pull for each other.

Take the Nationals at Mount Snow, Vermont. My front wheel went out of true, rubbing the brake pads, seconds before my cross-country race. A competitor, Marcia MacDonald, noticed that I'd broken a spoke. She adeptly let out some cable to open my brake, then twisted the dead spoke around its nearest buddy. We howled at the absurdity, the unlikelihood of this ever happening in a men's race.

I soon settled into the gruesome task of pedaling up the 1,350-foot climb. Just as I gained the crest, my front tire collapsed, the brake having rubbed through the casing. So I ran and pushed and carried my steed through hippo-pits of mud. The sun-scorched, uphill climb nearly nailed me, but the crowd pulled me home. Amazingly, I was swept right into the announcer's booth and interviewed. Everyone heard my story. Three months later I earned my first national ranking from that assist, from that run. Second in the country--right behind Marcia.

There's no doubt in my mind: Attitude, toughness, and perseverance count just as much as speed.

The notion to mountain bike originated from an article my husband read when off-road rigs first started being made. He was convinced he had to try it and wanted to buy a bike. I insisted on parity. In a suburban parking lot, late in November on a day going dark, I circled around with no clue about how to shift. From there I quickly discovered dirt and later became a full-fledged "hammerette" on a drop-dead beautiful 50-mile ridge (called the Gunks in upstate New York) with cliffs and waterfalls, all laced with carriage roads.

Cycling soon became an outlet for all my cares and worries--right when I needed it most. My 23-year marriage went down, puncturing my reality. I found myself flat-out lonely, needing emotional repairs and a new direction. Mountain biking highlighted my self-sufficiency and gave me context.

Ultimately, we all have to ride our own ride. The bike helps me remember that. When I wreck, I have to pick myself up and figure out how to keep going. As things break, including my body, I must learn how to fix them. It takes practice to pull your own weight. Soon I was mountain biking everywhere I could imagine--West Virginia, Utah, all over New England.

Then I found myself drawn to a local race.There I was awestruck by a woman I noticed across the infield. She was roughly my age, petite, and powerful beyond my comprehension. She introduced herself as Carol Waters and was enthusiastic about my trying competition. Then she went out and beat the knobbies off all the women in a time that rivaled the men's field. She became my hero, setting a standard of achievement for women over 40. When I came back for more the next year, Carol was there again cheering me on.

Later that summer I headed to Hunter Mountain for the New York State Championships. As I led my class up the mountain, some outrageous climber in the pack was relentlessly overtaking me. A tender voice said, "You're doing great, Kathy! Stay steady and ride your race. It's Carol. I'm just warming up." Here was my mentor, like a thunderbolt, coaching from my back wheel during my first championship. She became world veteran champion that year.

Even though I didn't win that race, 2 years later I was New England Sport Masters Champion. I was then able to dominate the series, and my goal became to move up to the expert class and qualify for the World Masters Team. Not bad for a pedalosaurus.

Kathy Burns achieved her goal of qualifying for the World Team and went on to compete in the World Championships.