Last Sunday at 0935 on the dot, and much to my surprise, I drove through the gate at Mt. Van Hoevenberg almost to the minute of my ETA.

I was surprised for two reasons. One was, regardless of the event, I’m chronically late. So for me to arrive when I say I will, while not recorded in Believe It Or Not, should be. The other was in for me to have arrived when I did, I had to get up at 0700. That’s not early for most people, but for me, a lifelong maniphobic, it might be an appropriate reveille for invading armies, but not for a Dope of Leisure. In fact, if I was gonna lead an invasion, you can bet it wouldn’t start before noon, or better yet, 1330.

So if I loathe early morning activities (which I do, and which covers all early morning activities), what impelled me to rise and attempt to shine at such an ungodly hour? Just this: I’d been comped a VIP pass for the finals of the UCI Mountain Bike World series, and I sure wasn’t about to let that go.

The pass had been generously bestowed upon me by Kris Cheney Seymour, trail design leader and Mt. Van Hoevenberg program director, through the blandishments of Amy Cheney-Seymour, his wife and my fellow journalistic hack. Amy had agreed to be my tour guide, which made her a vital compadre.

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An ugly duck among the beautiful ducklings

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Here’s the thing: Ever since I retired, and especially after COVID hit our shores, I find myself avoiding groups of any size — especially groups of peeps I don’t know. So to be surrounded by thousands of strangers, without a wing man or woman, would’ve been psychic suicide. Amy had said she’d be there by 0945, so there was no way I’d make her wait.

As instructed by Amy, I drove in to the VIP tent and picked up my badge, then drove to the VIP parking lot, locked up, and took in my surroundings.

Even at that early hour, there were scads of folks milling around. They were low-key and low volume, so if I had to be among a mob, this one was as good as it gets. Plus the weather was magnificent — sunny, warm, and windless, with the fall foliage well on its way to full glory.

By contrast, I was the opposite of glory.

In my battered and moth-eaten fedora and faded flannel shirt, with my Rip Van Winkle beard (probably also moth-eaten), I looked less like an autonomous human being than some pathetic old gazeekus kept afloat only as his family’s hereditary obligation. But — following through on the sad imagery — the family no longer felt obligated. And so they’d dropped the ancient pisher off at Van Ho, hoping, confused and confounded by all the noise, people, and activity, he’d wander off into the deep woods, ne’er to be seen again.

Meanwhile, everyone who walked by seemed to have stepped out of a catalog — EMS or LL Bean or REI, Marmot, North Face — you know the ones. They were as much paradigms of La Vie Sportive as I was of the One Foot in the Grave and the Other on a Banana Peel.

I stood in front of the main lodge and called Amy to see when she’d arrive. She said 20 minutes, so I figured I’d just lounge around and keep checking out the scene till she showed up. But before she did — lo and behold! — help arrived from another quarter. For there, walking toward me, right before my wandering eyes, were Amy’s parents, Jerry and Paula Cheney. I was suddenly hit by what I’m sure were the same feelings of the soldiers in the beleaguered fort when they heard the bugle call of their cavalry reinforcements/rescuers.

I’ve known Paula my entire life, literally. She’s two years older, went to kindergarten with my bro, and lived one block away from my childhood home on McClelland Street. Though one of the Big Kids, she was always a pal. She is unfailingly sweet and friendly, a fact most astounding considering she was the trail boss at Fobare and Sons Plumbing, and spent a full half century making sure the herd didn’t stampede.

Jerry was a bunch older than me, so we were never in school together. But as an adult, I got to know him and always enjoyed his company. Jerry is low-key and reserved, but he doesn’t miss a thing and has an excellent sense of humor.

After we exchanged greetings, I told them I was in a bad way: Before I left I had to feed and walk my dogs, and brew a pot of coffee for my thermos. I did both. However, due to my having to rush, as well as me being in my Early Morning Mokus Mode, I tore out of the house without eating anything and without taking my thermos. So by the time Paula and Jerry showed up, I was about drop from low blood sugar and an equally low CQ (Caffeine Quotient). When I told them that, they said, almost simultaneously, we should go get something to eat in the VIP lounge.

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A VIP what am a VIP

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Now a note about the whole VIP shmeer. Having been a VUP all my life, I had no idea what a VIP was anywhere, let alone at Van Ho, was. But I found out post haste. As I’d said, I looked like a total shlemiel — especially compared to sports-chic and soigne crowd that surrounded me. But walking in the Van Ho’s VIP country was what I imagine it’s like walking arm-in-arm with the Pope in Vatican City. One glance at my badge and doors were held, smiles abounded, and I was welcomed into the lounge as if I was a somebody.

But much to my credit, I didn’t let it go to my head. Uh-uh. Instead, I accepted my most recent status with a grace and noblesse oblige that would’ve made Lilibet proud. I also kept in mind Wilson Mizner’s famous quote: “Be kind to everyone on the way up; you’ll meet the same people on the way down.”

But I wasn’t in the VIP lounge just to impress folks with my humility — I was there to wake up and fill up. Which I did. And as befits chowin’ down amongst the VIP’s, I did it in fine style.

Amy had said there’d be coffee and some stuff to eat, so I imagined all the giveaway breakfast buffets I’d had over the years, and came up with the same sad selection: Weak lukewarm coffee; pastries wrapped in cellophane, loaded with fats, sugar and preservatives; slices of Velveeta; and warm, seriously diluted juices of indeterminable flavor.

But Van Hoe’s trough was a horse of a whole different hue. The coffee was hot, strong and delicious. The buffet had home fries, quiche — and dig this — lobster salad! There were also croissants, cinnamon rolls, and other baked goods, and all the food was delicious. Suffice it to say, when I had finally licked my platter clean and stood up from the trough, I was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and probably 3,000 calories to the good.

Next it was time to check out the races themselves, which were not like I’d expected. This was a cross country race where the bikers zoomed out and about in the toolies, over hill and dale, literally. As a result, I could only see one small part of the race at any time. It was kinda like, “Hey, here they come and there they go.”

I did walk up to the section I thought would be most exciting, which was a downhill with a jump, immediately followed by a wicked-sharp turn. The riders barreled down the hill full-tilt, fairly flew off the jump, and then whipped through the curve. It didn’t seem the riders could get through that section unscathed, but they all did. And, sadly, after a while, instead of their zipping through that section being seemingly impossible, it became just business as usual.

The “problem” was they’re the world’s best; they’re so skilled they make what’d be wild, wooly and wicked to the less skilled look like easy-peezy. And, ultimately, it’s the same with all skilled professionals — chefs, mechanics, graphic artists, woodworkers, etc: Unless they want to ham it up, it looks like what they’re doing is far less impressive than it truly is. And so, not understanding the subtleties of mountain bike riding and racing, after a while I only watched the racers in dribs and drabs.

But that didn’t mean I didn’t have a great time, because I did.

For one thing, the crowd’s spirit, enthusiasm, and energy gave the entire place a wonderful upbeat feel. For another, I got to talk with Amy, Paula and Jerry, something I do too rarely. I got to ride on the Cliffside Coaster, which was absolutely fabulous, and I got to shmooze with The Cosmic Kid, both of which you’ll read about next week.

In summing up, it was a day of Famous Firsts for me.

It was my first time at Van Hoevenberg. It was my first mountain bike race, let alone a world championship. It was my first time as a VIP.

And perhaps most amazingly, it was the first time I was ever on time for anything.