Fast forward. It’s lap two of the World Cup XC in Champerey. I’m riding up the first proper climb of the race, a short, steep dirt track lined with screaming fans across from a meadow filled with cows sporting huge bells as a sound that’s definitely not cows rolls across the hills. That’s right “IT’S THE FIIII-NAL COUNT-DOWN!!” Amazing. At about this same time I realize that I’ve survived a hectic start (more on that later) and settled into the teens somewhere with legs that feel pretty much like magic complemented by recently honed east coast skills. This could be good. Especially with that baseline pumping through my brain… (Which it still is now, dammit.)

Right, about that start. Sometimes people get nervous before things that scare them. World Cup races don’t have this effect on my seasoned persona. Unless there’s a 1k paved climb right off the bat that you HAVE to make it to the top of in front to actually race after the first (AWESOME) descent. Waterfalls and fast cars don’t really phase me, but the prospect of having to deal with a bunch of cracked out Euros on a paved road will scare the poo out of me in no time. As I rolled up to the line in 22nd position I knew what I had to do. Leaving my trusty Anthem X SL with Felice on the grid I climbed over the fencing and spotted a port-a-loo across the way. Salvation. Skinsuit down and in the position I noticed, just at the last possible second, the clear lack of T.P. Shoot. Big shoot. Maybe something that rhymes with shoot but with an “i”… Too late. As I assessed my situation I heard the French announcer call “Deux Minutes.” There was a rudimentary sink, no Bidet, but it’d have to do the job. I washed up and was redressing whilst climbing over the fence and back into the fray… Whew.

After that experience I was no longer worried about the difficulty of ANY bike race start, let alone this measly paved hill charge. I held my ground and funneled into the woods at the top in about my starting position. No gain, no loss. Time to get to business. The office for the day was perfect. An already sweet track was only improved, in my opinion, by the 1cm of rain that fell at dinnertime the night before. We knew the amount because Oli’s extremely scientific water glass placed on the porch measured the squall as such. Then we each drank half. It was delicious. This water was massaged into the dank black soil by the women’s race (in which Lea Davison laid town a career best and top American in 12th) and made the track just right. Not muddy in a sloppy way, just slippy. The first woods section was just like the Bog in Bangor, twisty rooty up and down-ness, then the climb, then a Mt Waldo Quarry trail copy descent with more Bog at the bottom for good measure. I love it when they bring Maine to World Cups. By lap three I was into the top ten and still moving forward, passing skinny guys on the climb and catching the next ones in the good bits. A pause on lap five to ride like kind of a prick after allowing the evil thought that I was pretty good to interrupt “THE FINAL COUNTDOWN” for a moment was recovered from with two to go and the front of the race was in my sights. It was also in five other guy’s sights. They stayed up and I ended the day stoked in sixth place, only 1:06 away from an impressive win by Burry Stander. Carl was right last week when he said that racing WELL is fun, not just racing for the sake of it. I had a damn good time out there and am kind of relieved to have had at least one World Cup where things work out for the body.

A pleasant cooldown with 16th place finisher Sam Schultz (where we both acknowledged the radness of the lap two soundtrack) ended a pretty darn sweet week in the Alps. I pointed out all the sick riding around the valley that I somehow resisted overdoing it on in the name of racing well and we vowed to catch up on that upon returning for another Word Cup next year. And yet again when the World Champs come to this idyllic village in 2011. I’m pretty fired up for that one too…