By Noah Tarr

One of my favorite things about the Colorado high school MTB league is the way that everyone supports without judgement – whether you’re having the best race of your life or the worst, there are always people there cheering you on, making you push, and helping you through mechanicals. Of course, it’s easy to forget these people exist until you actually have one of those bad races, the ones where you need their support.

It was the last regular-season race of my sophomore season, and the fact that I only needed to cross the finish line to make states was no deterrent to my desire to have my best race of the season. The Nathrop course begins with a short sandy climb before you ride through a few miles of flat, relatively open single track. After a mediocre start, I ended up behind my teammate, and we hammered the climb, ending up in good position by the single track with plenty of gas left in the tank. I was so determined to have a good race that when my teammate swung around the outside of the trail to pass a few kids, I immediately hopped on his wheel, following his line through the rough brush. Things were going well. At least, this is what I believed for about another quarter mile.

One of the things I neglected to mention about that particular section of open singletrack, besides its lack of shade and overall boringness, is the abundant quantity of cacti to the side of the trail. When my teammate and I had rode through the grassy shoulder, I had also ridden straight through a cactus, poking a hole through my tire and into my tube (yes, I hadn’t switched to tubeless yet). I noticed this a few minutes later and, after a few select curses, set my sights on the course marshal close ahead.

For my first two years of high school, I rode a beat up Specialized Rockhopper that I’d added a cheap aftermarket dropper post to. The bike was too small for me, the dropper only worked about half of the time, and on top of all of that, it probably weighed more than my current bike while being two sizes smaller. The other thing with my Rockhopper was that the tires felt as if they were superglued to the wheel every time you tried to take one off. The poor course marshal I stopped next to soon figured this out when he took out one of his tire irons, jammed it into my wheel, and proceeded to snap the plastic clean in half with one tug. But no fear, he had two more tire irons, and there was no possible way he would snap both of those too.

He snapped both of them. Mr. Course Marshal, if you’re reading this, it probably wasn’t your fault. I hadn’t brung a tire iron, and if all your tire irons were really brittle there was nothing you could have done. Probably. But whoever’s fault it was, the only thing the guy could do was tell me to ride another mile on my flat tire to the next course marshal and hope that they had functioning tire irons (or better technique? Maybe it was your fault, man).

So I did what the man said – I rode off towards the next marshal point, a thin strip of rubber separating my wheel from the ground as I fishtailed in the sandy dirt. I flinched at every root and every rock until I finally reached the next marshal point, the one right at the top of the first downhill. I told the man of my predicament and we got to work. But I swear, the tires on that bike were so hard to get off. It took probably a solid ten minutes to work the tire off of my bike, but from there it was smooth sailing. We got my spare tube in, the tire mostly back on, and started to pump.

By this time, all of my teammates who I normally outpaced had caught up and passed me, and there were about three other sweeps who had joined my cause. Every time another South rider passed they would shout their condolences and then fly down the downhill, leaving me stranded once again with random strangers who were all the while trying to fix my bike.

Regardless of my fragile ego sinking each time a rider passed, we were finally pumping up my tire. It had been almost twenty minutes since I’d been on my bike at this point, and I was almost eager to get back in the saddle. However, the tire was oddly reluctant to inflate. It only took another half minute to recognize the truth – my spare tire had a hole in it. The energy in our random, stitched-together group of sweeps, course marshals, and myself fell. We had all just spent a quarter of an hour trying to fix my bike before realizing that it was unfixable from the start, and at this point I was uncertain I was even going to finish the race. That was, until the course marshal offered me his bike.

In comparison to my size small Rockhopper, the marshal’s bright orange XL bike was a bit of a shift. But if it was the only option, I was sure going to have to take it. We didn’t even bother changing the seat height – he just set the dropper to the bottom and I left it there. Theoretically, his pedals were the same brand as my shoes, but there was no time to adjust or test. The marshal point was literally feet from the beginning of the downhill, and when I got on the bike I was essentially already on the way down. My cleats bounced and slid on the unfamiliar pedals, but I reached the bottom still in the saddle and started cranking.

In the other three races that year (where my bike functioned normally) I was averaging a little over 30 minutes per lap. This race, I finished my first lap in 56 minutes, not even including the 5 minute assistance penalty. When I came through the first lap I was in what you could call a bad mood. I’d had a terrible race so far, I was on a bike that didn’t fit me, and I still had a lap to go. I expected a thin crowd, a lull at the end of when most people finish their first lap and before the finishers come in. But just like every other lap through my entire season, parents and coaches lined the course, cheering me on. I couldn’t help but give a rueful smile – I was still unhappy with the position I was in, but it was hard not to enjoy it just a little bit. Plus, since I’d made it through the first lap before the cutoff (somehow), now I was pretty much guaranteed a spot at states, so long as I finished a second one.

It was a moment of realization that everything was going to be okay, and that I had people who wanted to see me succeed all around me. After I finished my second lap (20 minutes faster than my first), I found the course marshal who had lent me his bike. Just half an hour ago he had sacrificed his own ride to a random kid from a different team and walked my flakt-tired bike all the way back to the start line on foot just so I could have a chance at finishing. After I thanked him, we swapped bikes back and I went to find my teammates. I don’t think I thanked him enough – I’m not sure I will ever get to, other than if reading this counts. But it’s people like that course marshal, and the parents, coaches, and teammates on the sideline at my late lap-through that day, that make this league such a great place. So thank you all!

[Editor’s Note: Noah’s story is super cool! But please be aware that riders are assessed a penalty for accepting outside assistance.]

Noah Tarr is a senior at Denver South High School. He is a legacy rider and outside of biking, runs cross-country and track.