Battle at Montana Grande
by Patty Mooney

I was not an athletic child, and never won any prizes for sports. Spelling and mathematics, yes. But not sports! I was shy and retiring, the last chosen on any team. It was a "Catch-22" situation; the less confidence my peers revealed in my athletic abilities, the worse I would play. I was invariably the one who got hit in the head with softball, soccer ball, or football; who landed on my butt while attempting to ice skate on the frozen field behind the school; who came in dead-last in every swimming and running heat. Although taller than my female classmates, I couldn’t get the basketball into the hoop; any attempt to dribble would send the ball bouncing crazily off my own feet. And I don’t even want to talk about gymnastics. The hanging rope, the pull-up bars, the floor mat – all instruments of torture! I would rather have submitted to the gloating “dentist” who works Dustin Hoffman over in “Marathon Man.” You get the picture. I got used to feeling mortified every waking moment. I wished on many occasions that the Earth would open up and swallow me, along with my non-existent hand-eye coordination. In high school I could easily have authored a book called "1001 Ways to Get Excused from P.E. Class.” Instead, I concentrated on Science; it was not one of my best subjects, but at least I could forget about PhysEd, and became absorbed in collecting insects, and skinning and dissecting small mammals.

During my late twenties, with some encouragement and coaching from my extremely patient husband, I metamorphosed from slug to sport enthusiast. At 33, I finally earned my first trophy -- a 15-pound bronze Aztec warrior who stands, with spear raised, on top of my bedroom dresser. To look at him you'd never suspect he was a first-place prize for the particularly challenging sport of mountain biking. But he knows. And I know.

It all began on a cool, foggy November morning in Rosarito Beach, Baja California, the site of the first annual Montana Grande Mountain Bike Ride. Bright and early that day Mark and I had driven from San Diego across the border into Tijuana, and then continued down the road to Rosarito Beach. Freshly suited in Lycra, with our bikes gleaming on racks atop our car, we had pulled into Rosarito Beach to join about 150 other riders well before the noon starting time. The promoters were careful to elaborate in the entry application that it was "just a ride, and not a race.” However, there would be prizes for first- through third-place riders in both the male and female classes. The ride was scheduled to begin at noon. At 11:30 AM, clusters of neon-clad mountain-bike aficionados in helmets and sunglasses gathered in a tight wad at the starting site, in an alley between commercial buildings. For half an hour, we poised on our bikes, ready to roll, straining at the starting ribbon with the intestine-wrenching nervousness that clutches many a racer at a starting gate.

At noon, the event’s promoter called everyone’s attention, and we mountain-bikers prepared to “rock and roll.” But he announced that due to technicalities, the ride would be delayed for another half hour. Some of us took turns watching our bikes for each other as we sought intestinal relief in the restroom of “Peanuts and Beer,” a nearby cantina. Finally, at 12:30 P.M., the ride officially began. A clot of us burst through the starting ribbon onto a twenty-mile dirt jeep track that twisted out of town and looped around the desert mountains east of Rosarito. The start was probably the scariest part of the ride for most people, careening into each other, handlebars hooking handlebars, tires nerfing tires, and dust flying as cheers rose from the onlookers.

A pack of eight or ten of the fastest men, including my husband, loped ahead and promptly became dots on the horizon. I was able to keep up with the next group of about fifty riders. After jamming along the hard-packed, rutted road, a long ascent rose up like a wall ahead of us. To my frustration, several people suddenly stopped in front of me on the dusty road. Twice I had to get off and run my bicycle around these stall victims! Finally, as the riders spread out, I was breezing down the rocky roads and working into a smooth, fast cadence. As I passed the first water /aid station five miles into the race, the volunteers there yelled, "You're the second woman, keep it up!"

I came upon some surprise single-track with soft, rutted dirt. My tires tracked skittishly through, bouncing me off a cliff, and almost off my bike, but I held my line. Further downhill, off-camber turns featuring mounds of cake-flour dirt forced many a rider to their knees.

Next, some easy-going terrain skirted alongside rancheros where cows stood chewing, observing the steady stream of mountain bike "cosmonauts." Later Mark would ask if I had noticed the cow with short legs and no rump. So intent on gaining speed, I had missed that sorry sight. For the next five miles speeding as fast as my legs could hammer and passing male riders one by one, I felt hopeful I would catch the first woman any minute. I let myself go on the downhill stretches, one of which was so rocky and treacherous, it had claimed a rider who lay at the bottom with two medics bent over him and an ambulance parked nearby. I tried not to think about the scene as I sailed past, gathering momentum for yet another tough uphill climb and keeping the dangerous thought of crashing out of my mind.

At the last water/aid station, I rolled through calling, "Throw water on me!" A volunteer happily doused me with a burst of water that reacted like water poured into an empty radiator. It prevented me from overheating, just in time. "Three more miles to go," the volunteer yelled. As I turned back to thank him, I noticed a woman coming pretty quickly behind me, about a quarter of a mile away. I revved it up as fast as I could then, thinking, "I want to win!" I blazed past a couple of ranches where Mexican families sat outside and rooted me on, shouting "Arriba!" Grazing horses with prominent ribs looked up to scrutinize the spectacle I must have been - a frenzied, muddied woman on some sort of metal creature. Then I heard a familiar female voice greeting me from behind, "Hi Pat!" It was a fellow member of my Wednesday night riding group, Tracy, who had closed the quarter mile gap between us in no time.

"Hi Tracy," I gasped. "How are you doing?"

"I crashed back there," she replied.

"You okay?"

"I'm still feeling kind of woozy."

Even after her crash she was a strong rider. We diced as she led for a few feet, then I'd pass and lead. Finally, she passed and I followed her line down a steep hill which catapulted us onto a steep incline with soft dirt. Tracy jumped off her bike and started running it up. I knew this was the critical point in our race, and that if I wanted to maintain second place, I had better stay on my bike and pump. Obsession motivated me up and over that hill and I propelled forward. I didn't look back.

I never let up and raced through the finish line ribbon as a photographer snapped my picture and a crowd cheered me and my Raleigh bicycle home. Moments later I discovered that Tracy had been the number-one woman and I must have passed her (after she crashed) without realizing it. That meant I was first-place woman. And that meant "Armando" the bronze Aztec trophy was mine to take home.

Armando stood on the center of the table outside on the cantina patio, King of all he surveyed, and focal point of the afternoon, as Mark, our riding buddies and I sat drinking beers with lime wedges and devouring baskets of tortilla chips and bowls of salsa. Every so often, one of the other riders would stop at our table and comment, “Hey! That’s some trophy! Good job!”

The sky darkened as people celebrated with margaritas, tacos and beer, and those in a partying mood began dancing to the beat of a reggae band. If only my high-school classmates could see me now. Armando, my trophy that stood gazing impassively into the distance was, at 15 pounds, a hefty reminder of an accomplishment I could never even have imagined as a girl. I don't need to mount Armando to my handlebars to remind me that I can break through limitations; I just have to set my mind to it, then do it.