My first mountain bike race did not start auspiciously.

I left the house about 15 minutes later than I’d intended, but that was no big deal. I’d still get there a good 40 minutes before the start, I figured.

About 20 minutes up the highway, I realized I hadn’t brought my inhaler.

That’s not good for a guy with exercise-enhanced asthma, but I tried to stay calm. Stress makes asthma worse, and I figured there was a chance I’d pass a pharmacy (I use a fairly common chain) on my way to Bear Brook. If not, perhaps I could bum a hit of albuterol off someone else.

About 30 minutes up the highway, I realized I’d just blown past my exit. I was convinced it would be past the Hooksett tolls… it is, if you’re heading south.

About 10 minutes off the highway, on the way to Bear Brook, I found a Rite Aid. Things were looking up.

I got to the starting area and found a parking spot with time to spare, next to a car whose occupant had an inhaler if I’d needed it. How much time to spare, I wasn’t sure. There were lots of bikers waiting near the starting line, and lots more milling about and heading out for warm-up rides.

I missed my start.

I was signed up for the “open” class in the Bear Brook Blast-Off, second in the Eastern Fat Tire Association’s New England series. It seemed appropriate for me. It isn’t for serious racers, but considering I’ve been mountain biking for nearly 20 years, I couldn’t bear to sign up as a novice.

I hadn’t thought much about the single lap option, either. When I signed up, the two-lap course was going to be something like 18 or 20 miles. That didn’t sound like much. When the organizers came up with 25-mile course, I wasn’t worried. If I could run it, I can ride it, I figured.

Did I mention this was my first race? About six or eight miles into it, I was worried.

I had started with a bunch of younger guys who were doing the 14 mile course, and they dropped me like a soggy tissue. I was much happier when I was riding on my own, though my pace tended to lag. After a while some bright spandex blurs (expert/elite riders, some of whom were doing three laps) started to whizz past me. I caught up with some other riders, and even managed to pass a few, without wiping anyone out. I got lots of practice getting myself out of faster riders’ way, and I think, with all due modesty, I got pretty good at it.

The course was well-marked (though that didn’t stop me from following some speedy young feller off on a wrong turn at one point near the archery course, for a half mile or so out-and-back detour). I’d ridden Bear Brook twice before, and the race covered some faintly familiar ground. It was a terrific mix of fast fire roads, twisty single track and a relatively short rocky, technical section, ending at The Steps. I had seen those steps once before. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to ride down them, but they’re easier than they look.

At some point I realized that I was riding more familiar terrain, and learned from a fellow rider that we were into the second lap. My happiness was profound. The second lap actually seemed shorter than the first, excepting the last couple miles, which somehow included the Ghobi desert, the Sierra Nevadas and half the Tour de France.

How’d I do?

Well, I finished, and I didn’t get hurt. I’d call that a smashing success. My time of 3:06 would have put me toward the back of the ’sports’ class for my age group (masters). It took longer than I expected, that’s for sure, and when I was done, I found that what I wanted most in the whole wide world was a hot cup of strong coffee. I was really, really tired.Having found coffee (and pizza, home, shower, etc), I felt better, if still tired. I might just try it again sometime, and see if I can’t get used to it.