By Lauren McSherry

photo courtesy of laurel holding The author, second from right, rides up Hurl Hill, one of the steepest sections of trail on the racecourse.

Every year the Laguna Seca Racetrack in Monterey becomes a cycling mecca drawing tens of thousands of biking enthusiasts of all ages. For four days in mid-April, the screaming of race-car tires was replaced by the booming voices of announcers and cheering from hordes of fans watching professional cyclists in action.

The number of professional athletes, vendors, spectators and members of the media who attended April’s event reached nearly 60,000. With every hotel in the area booked, the racetrack’s campground swelled to a tent city of 5,000 inhabitants. This year I happened to be among the thousands of visitors, and for the first time I watched professional mountain bike races that weren’t on a TV screen.

The races were premier among the festival’s attractions, with Olympic medalists and world champion athletes competing in grueling road and mountain bike races and gripping dirt jump contests.

Most of all, it was exciting to witness world-class women cyclists and to find that there are sports in which a woman under 5 feet 5 inches can excel. (At 5 feet 2 inches, I’m no Amazon.)

The festival was also the first time I took part in a race as a beginner mountain biker.

What possessed me to enter the 19-mile cross-country women’s mountain bike race? Curiosity, I suppose. The race was a chance to prove to myself that I could hold my own as a cyclist and maybe exceed my expectations.

The start of the race took me by surprise. I’d expected a countdown, but there wasn’t one. I was stashing my wind jacket in my backpack just as the whistle was blown for the start. Everyone set out, sprinting up a steep section of the paved racetrack. I shoved my pack on my shoulders without securing its straps and struggled to catch up, feeling winded and frustrated at my pack swinging from side to side.

The beginning of the course was also a surprise. I was bracing myself for sections of trail that I had previously ridden as part of the pre-race course. Where was that initial hairpin turn just after the speed-inducing downhill section? I felt a bit thrown off by the change in the course and very overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. I had suddenly become part of a frenzy of cyclists, all incredibly intent on riding faster and harder than they ever had before.

Soon the course became familiar as I was swept along singletrack - a narrow path just wide enough for one rider - that followed a ridgeline through rolling, verdant foothills overlooking the Pacific. Knowing the track could easily seduce me into going too fast, I kept reminding myself of the rider I had come upon the previous day. Sprawled across the trail after a bad spill on his mountain bike, he had blood trickling down his leg from a compound fracture.

As I crested the first minor hill of the course, I saw paramedics carrying a gurney to a helicopter perched on the same section of trail. The sight was sobering, and after passing the medics, I held back on the section of descending trail that followed.

Next, amid the mass of athletic women cyclists, I came upon the amusing sight of a heavyset man dressed up as the pope, complete with papal staff. Walking his bike up a hill, he shouted, “Good job, ladies! Keep it up!” Intent on passing him, I didn’t stare for too long.

Legs burning, I approached the next big challenge, what I considered to be my Everest: Hurl Hill. My No. 1 goal of the race was to ascend the hill without falling over, getting tangled with another rider or wimping out and walking my bike. I also wanted to avoid throwing up from exertion and adrenaline, since that is how Hurl Hill gained its notorious name and reputation.

At the top, too winded to be jubilant about my accomplishment, I steered over to the side of the trail to say hi to my No. 1 fan, my boyfriend, and to regroup with my racing partner, Laurel. (I almost ran over a professional photographer crouching next to the trail in the process.)

Together Laurel and I embarked on the next section of the course. We zipped down sandy fire roads as semipro riders overtook us. The subsequent 16 miles were equally grueling, but they flew by, literally.

Throughout the race, I was amazed at the camaraderie among the female competitors.We cheered each other on, we were polite when passing and we even apologized when we got in each other’s way.

Rather than cultivating adversarial feelings, the race fostered a certain fellowship as we dashed through mud puddles, sweated up climbs and got bogged down in sandpits.

There were also short but meaningful moments of companionship: the mile or so that another cyclist rode with me and reassured me after I nearly wiped out, drafting Laurel up the last few miles of the course when my quads felt like lead, and, finally, zooming along the final stretch of paved racetrack with another cyclist, knowing we were nearly there.

Laurel placed 10th; five minutes behind her, I ranked 11th.

After the race Laurel and I chatted with a pro rider’s parents, and they asked us how the 19 miles and 2,700 feet of climbing had gone. I responded that it gave women’s suffrage a whole new meaning.

It was grueling, but worth it. You might be wondering whether I’ll do it again next year. You bet. But next time, I’ll ride even faster.