Masters Road Race 45-49
83 km
04 September 2011
Dear Bicycle Racing,
I knew our relationship could not last forever. I've tried so hard to be worthy of your attention, to try to bask under your wan smile. The demands you've made of me I've struggled to satisfy. Hadn't you noticed? I knew our relationship would be doomed at some point, but really Bicyle Racing, last Sunday? For you to favor 36 other guys my age before me, when I showed up just for you, only for you, was a sharp blow to my sense of pride. And for my part I have other things in my life (like a family, a living to make, and learning bass guitar for instance). And so I think it's best that we break it off now.
You asked many things of me, and I gave them to you. You told me in no uncertain terms that I was fat, and so I lost weight. You said I was too slow, so I even rode the dreaded intervals for you (I know you love it when I do these things but damn they hurt). Prior to our big date on Sunday I prepared myself and my bike just about perfectly, nervous as an espoir. I was hoping you would be so tickled you might let me win or at least give me a good ride even though there were so many other guys there who were courting you too. But I suppose your attention wandered.
I loved the course you selected, three 17- mile loops just outside of Bend. Two climbs per lap and each climb brazenly ending with more uphill. A good, testing course that would select a worthy champion.
But maybe you overpromised, and whispered into the ears of lots of guys that they were special. Even dudes wearing those hideous team kits (I don't want to send a low blow, but really I thought you had better taste!).
A hot wind blew in from the western lava fields, carrying with it a touch of smoke in the air from a local wildfire. It added a melodramatic sense of urgency to the race and colored the specular highlights of every shiny surface with that pink-orange glare. The temperature was high, Bicycle Racing, mid-90s, but I thought I could deal with it alright.
We all rode an attentive and fast race. Almost no one ever got away from the field, and if they did get away, it was just for a few moments before being re-absorbed. Generally it felt like we were rolling along at 30 mph most of the time. Including the climbing, we honored you with an average speed 24.5, not bad for a hilly course. I got off the front at one point, more for fun and to show you that I was here, but I was also caught in short order.
There were two climbs per lap, and three laps. So by the fifth climb I was getting tired and the pack of 85 or so were strung out; gaps were forming and a few were finally getting sawed off. I got a bottle handup at speed through the feedzone from my old friend and Bend resident Dan, and was dealing with cramps in both quads as the boys at the very front tore it up. The rest of us behind were groveling in the wheels, trying to hold on. I was about 20 guys back behind a larger rider. Bicycle Racing, long ago you taught me the hard way to always look for the biggest rider to get behind when it's crunch time. That's something I'll never forget, and I'll always thank you for that.
I tried to move up as we got to Archie Briggs Rd, the site of the last climb of the race. Everyone was doing the same and I was about 30 back at the start of the climb. I did get up it in great shape, passing at least ten going up the short steep first part of it.
But it was precisely there where I ran into trouble, and it was precisely there where the race tore itself open, and you looked away. Maybe I went too hard on that first part but nevertheless a group of 13 snapped themselves off the front, leaving shards and remnants of gasping riders trying to regroup to stay relevant.
I was one of those guys, finding a rider or two to work with as the road kicked up one, two and finally a third time. Surprisingly, one of the riders who I passed at this point was the earlier criterium's silver medalist Pat Briggs.
I still tried to do alright by you, Bicycle Racing, and we coalesced into a group of eight grim-faced grogneurs trading pace and trying to limit our losses. Surprisingly among us was Craig Roemer, he, strong of leg and cracked of ribs from the criterium.
At this point the run-in to the finish was just a few km, not enough to make up much ground from the climbing.
A group of 21 was in sight, just up the road, but they were trying just as hard as we were to catch the group in front of them, and so as such the gaps stayed about the same going all the way to the line.
The sprint in my group, for 34th, was a little half-hearted, as we all knew you weren't favoring us that afternoon, and the distinction between 34th to 42nd was worth the courtesy sprint but not much more than that.
My old friend from Seattle Rich McClung made the front group but placed last in that group for 13th, a result he appears to be pleased with.
Me I was definitely not pleased with 37th and 1:45 off the pace of the solo winner. That guy was supposed to have been me! Honestly, Bicycle Racing, what fella wouldn't feel at least a little jilted?
Bicycle Racing, when we were both younger it seemed you just liked me more. You found me funnier -- my sticker-covered Dodge Dart, wild, untamed hair and silly antics -- and you sometimes rewarded me with audacious wins, the attention of national team coaching staff, the occasional few hundred bucks, the foreign trip. Now I'm older, just like you, but I guess there are other men out there who must tickle your fancy a bit more. I'll have to accept that. Okay, Rich Meeker I can understand ... I mean my god that guy has muscles in places where I don't even have places! But what really hurts was the way you led me on. That little win in Novato, those triumphs against the pros on the Tuesday night races, I really thought you were on my side. Now I see that you must have been toying with me all along.
As Robert Plant wails on Led Zeppelin I, "I can't quit you baby, ... so I'm gonna put you down for a while ..." I'm going to give our relationship a rest. I'll go back to flirting with your tamer and far less critical sister, Bicycle Riding. Maybe I'll come back to you when I'm 50 (50!?), and maybe, I can only hope, your feelings for me will have changed a bit by then.
-Rick
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Friday, September 2, 2011
2011 Masters Criterium National Championships
2011 Masters Criterium Championships
Masters 45-49, 40km (25 miles)
Bend, OR
02 Sept. 2011
Bend is a gem of a town, and quite a contrast especially since our Sonoma County summer has bounced around between "cool" and "dreadful." Here, it's 78 degrees, dry and not a cloud in the sky. The town itself is charming, with eight (eight!) local breweries, a river through the town and lots of gorgeous people.
Bend is small but very athletic. Think of it as smaller version of Boulder Colorado, just as homogenous, yet not quite so precious (I can say these things because I used to live in Boulder). But it's also humbling: It's the kind of place where in any given coffee shop in town the barista looks like he could whip out a 4:30 mile and the lady with the two kids behind you in line just crushed a 100 km ride in three hours.
The Masters National Championships are held here for all sorts of age groups, starting at 30 years old and ending with a few athletes over 80. That's what I like about this sport: the shelf life of the racing cyclist rivals that of the legendary Twinkie™. It's possible for guys in their 50s to better their trained counterparts in their 20s, using cunning and treachery to make up for any diminution of pure power. By contrast, I haven't heard of a Masters' tackle football league. And maybe there are some half-century old gymnasts who can give the 15 year olds a run for their money, but I haven't heard of them.
My goal for the criterium was to place in the top-ten. I thought that was a reasonably-optimistic expectation. Looking at the start list online I saw a few names of guys I'd want to follow around, maybe get in a break with.
The downtown course is a very long rectangle, which appears on it's face to be not too technical. Not a place to shine by better bike handling.
The day was spent preparing for my 2:15 pm race, and my prep was very good. The ritual of race prep can be comforting when you are getting ready for a big one. It gives the mind something concrete to focus on, obsess over. I finished up on my noisy set of beat-up rollers, with them screaming like a Southwest flight at takeoff. At 2:04 I jumped off and rolled down to the start line, where, unfortunately 92 of my fellow racers had already assembled. Dang. It looks like I was going to start at the back, but I was in good company. Norcal locals Pat Briggs (Yahoo) and Craig Roemer (Specialized) were back there with me.
As it turn out, one of us would get 2nd, one of us 22nd, and one would crash out with three cracked ribs.
The race exploded out of the gate, the peloton stretching into one thin line almost immediately until turn 3, when the three lanes of backstretch compress into a thin and bumpy single lane between a playground and a high old masony building, and we were an anxious and compressed group, everyone trying to find somewhere to move up. At the back we were at a near standstill as we all had to funnel down into this small dangerous aperture. And then coming out of turn four the race at the back exploded again with the rubber band of riders attempting to un-stretch down the homestretch. My cyclometer routinely hit 36 mph early on due to the stretching and unstretching that the riders at the back were forced to do.
But it didn't take too many laps to realize that it was not only more difficult at the back, it was also more dangerous, as riders were consistently being forced off the road at the entry to turn three. I absolutely knew that I had to move up. The only problem was that everyone else back there with me were about as desperate to do the same. The the front and homestretch were spent frantically passing, and the corners were spent trying to consolidate position.
It was about at this time that I changed my goal for this race. I threw out the idea of a top-ten. My readjusted goal now was just to get to the front.
And I slowly got my crit mojo working. Take turns one and two on the outside. Take turn 3 on the inside (to avoid being run off the road). drift to the left on the homestraight and to the right on the backstraight to take advantage of the crosswind. Ride wheels when someone is killing themselves to move up. Move up but conserve for later when you'll need it.
Turn one and three guys go down at 27 mph. Right in front of me. The high pitch zing of racewheels skidding. the sharp crack of carbon bits snapping. Full bottles of Red Bull or whatever skidding off in odd directions. The smell of brake pads. I'm on the outside and am able to just miss the pileup by drifting wide when the guy to my right just centerpunches the fallen riders. As I'm going by a pair of high zoot sunglasses sails under my front wheel which cracks with a satisfying snap under my weight.
With too many amped up guys going for a limited space of real estate every lap, it was, simply put, a dangerous race. I also noticed a large range of bike handling abilities on the course. Darwin was working his magic by sending those guys to the back but there were still strong guys toward the front to be avoided, like they were mines ready to be tripped at any moment.
It was about at this time that I changed my goal in this race. My goal now was not to crash.
... and I did find the front, about halfway into the race. I was methodically moving up, consolidating, moving up some more, when a Safeway rider jumped hard on the outside and I followed him right up to the clot of riders at the front. The pace here was not as frenetic as there was not nearly as much stop and start. The only problem was that everyone knows this and there was intense competition to stay at the front once there.
Through the S/F I jumped hard to see if I could get away, maybe begin a selection. In a race like this it's my only hope to do well. Hey look ma! I'm leading the National Championships! But the rest of the field is on my wheel and I get off the front pretty quickly as towing the field around is not my style.
I notice Max Mack perfectly placed, about 12 back from the front. He's got very dark skin and a barbie-pink skinsuit so he's kind of hard to miss. I see that lap after lap he could keep his position, missing the danger and effort that being toward the back has. What's his secret? As he's a sprinter of note, this race is definitely playing into his capabilities.
Meanwhile after my raid at the front I dropped back 30 or so places instantly. How did that happen? Another several lap scrape to move up, with Max Mack as my pink beacon.
I got close to the front a few more times but was unable to hold position. At the front it really didn't feel too fast, it's just that every attack was immediately shut down by everyone else and the race didn't really light up and get long and thin. A race contested at high speed that rewarded cornering and power would have suited me better. A swarm of shorn, primary colored men jockeying for position lap after lap was not playing to my strength. It actually is a sort o purgatory. But still I kept trying to move up, consolidate, and move up more.
On the final lap I was about 28 riders back and trying to find a way to move up (along with everyone else) and was able to pick off a couple guys in the narrow section, out accelerate in the final corner and sprint on the headwind side (to avoid traffic) to finish in 22nd. 100 meters to go, behind me and to my left I heard more of the dreaded sound. Roemer is taken down by some other guy and lands on the sidewalk, cracking ribs. Briggs holds his own and is only beaten by phenom Rich Meeker. Mack inexplicably finishes only five places in front of me.
So I'm a little dissapointed but in all honesty the race did not shape up to be one that I had a realistic expectation of doing well in. Hoewever, in the 50-54, the race blew apart from the start, with groups coalescing and re-fragmenting. Big Bubba Melcher put in a hell of a ballsy ride to ultimately solo in for the win, Northern Cal riders finishing with four of the top five in that one. I wish I was in that race! I guess I have something to look forward to when I turn 50.
Road Race tomorrow. I'm off to pre-ride the course now.
Masters 45-49, 40km (25 miles)
Bend, OR
02 Sept. 2011
Bend is a gem of a town, and quite a contrast especially since our Sonoma County summer has bounced around between "cool" and "dreadful." Here, it's 78 degrees, dry and not a cloud in the sky. The town itself is charming, with eight (eight!) local breweries, a river through the town and lots of gorgeous people.
Bend is small but very athletic. Think of it as smaller version of Boulder Colorado, just as homogenous, yet not quite so precious (I can say these things because I used to live in Boulder). But it's also humbling: It's the kind of place where in any given coffee shop in town the barista looks like he could whip out a 4:30 mile and the lady with the two kids behind you in line just crushed a 100 km ride in three hours.
The Masters National Championships are held here for all sorts of age groups, starting at 30 years old and ending with a few athletes over 80. That's what I like about this sport: the shelf life of the racing cyclist rivals that of the legendary Twinkie™. It's possible for guys in their 50s to better their trained counterparts in their 20s, using cunning and treachery to make up for any diminution of pure power. By contrast, I haven't heard of a Masters' tackle football league. And maybe there are some half-century old gymnasts who can give the 15 year olds a run for their money, but I haven't heard of them.
My goal for the criterium was to place in the top-ten. I thought that was a reasonably-optimistic expectation. Looking at the start list online I saw a few names of guys I'd want to follow around, maybe get in a break with.
The downtown course is a very long rectangle, which appears on it's face to be not too technical. Not a place to shine by better bike handling.
The day was spent preparing for my 2:15 pm race, and my prep was very good. The ritual of race prep can be comforting when you are getting ready for a big one. It gives the mind something concrete to focus on, obsess over. I finished up on my noisy set of beat-up rollers, with them screaming like a Southwest flight at takeoff. At 2:04 I jumped off and rolled down to the start line, where, unfortunately 92 of my fellow racers had already assembled. Dang. It looks like I was going to start at the back, but I was in good company. Norcal locals Pat Briggs (Yahoo) and Craig Roemer (Specialized) were back there with me.
As it turn out, one of us would get 2nd, one of us 22nd, and one would crash out with three cracked ribs.
The race exploded out of the gate, the peloton stretching into one thin line almost immediately until turn 3, when the three lanes of backstretch compress into a thin and bumpy single lane between a playground and a high old masony building, and we were an anxious and compressed group, everyone trying to find somewhere to move up. At the back we were at a near standstill as we all had to funnel down into this small dangerous aperture. And then coming out of turn four the race at the back exploded again with the rubber band of riders attempting to un-stretch down the homestretch. My cyclometer routinely hit 36 mph early on due to the stretching and unstretching that the riders at the back were forced to do.
But it didn't take too many laps to realize that it was not only more difficult at the back, it was also more dangerous, as riders were consistently being forced off the road at the entry to turn three. I absolutely knew that I had to move up. The only problem was that everyone else back there with me were about as desperate to do the same. The the front and homestretch were spent frantically passing, and the corners were spent trying to consolidate position.
It was about at this time that I changed my goal for this race. I threw out the idea of a top-ten. My readjusted goal now was just to get to the front.
And I slowly got my crit mojo working. Take turns one and two on the outside. Take turn 3 on the inside (to avoid being run off the road). drift to the left on the homestraight and to the right on the backstraight to take advantage of the crosswind. Ride wheels when someone is killing themselves to move up. Move up but conserve for later when you'll need it.
Turn one and three guys go down at 27 mph. Right in front of me. The high pitch zing of racewheels skidding. the sharp crack of carbon bits snapping. Full bottles of Red Bull or whatever skidding off in odd directions. The smell of brake pads. I'm on the outside and am able to just miss the pileup by drifting wide when the guy to my right just centerpunches the fallen riders. As I'm going by a pair of high zoot sunglasses sails under my front wheel which cracks with a satisfying snap under my weight.
With too many amped up guys going for a limited space of real estate every lap, it was, simply put, a dangerous race. I also noticed a large range of bike handling abilities on the course. Darwin was working his magic by sending those guys to the back but there were still strong guys toward the front to be avoided, like they were mines ready to be tripped at any moment.
It was about at this time that I changed my goal in this race. My goal now was not to crash.
... and I did find the front, about halfway into the race. I was methodically moving up, consolidating, moving up some more, when a Safeway rider jumped hard on the outside and I followed him right up to the clot of riders at the front. The pace here was not as frenetic as there was not nearly as much stop and start. The only problem was that everyone knows this and there was intense competition to stay at the front once there.
Through the S/F I jumped hard to see if I could get away, maybe begin a selection. In a race like this it's my only hope to do well. Hey look ma! I'm leading the National Championships! But the rest of the field is on my wheel and I get off the front pretty quickly as towing the field around is not my style.
I notice Max Mack perfectly placed, about 12 back from the front. He's got very dark skin and a barbie-pink skinsuit so he's kind of hard to miss. I see that lap after lap he could keep his position, missing the danger and effort that being toward the back has. What's his secret? As he's a sprinter of note, this race is definitely playing into his capabilities.
Meanwhile after my raid at the front I dropped back 30 or so places instantly. How did that happen? Another several lap scrape to move up, with Max Mack as my pink beacon.
I got close to the front a few more times but was unable to hold position. At the front it really didn't feel too fast, it's just that every attack was immediately shut down by everyone else and the race didn't really light up and get long and thin. A race contested at high speed that rewarded cornering and power would have suited me better. A swarm of shorn, primary colored men jockeying for position lap after lap was not playing to my strength. It actually is a sort o purgatory. But still I kept trying to move up, consolidate, and move up more.
On the final lap I was about 28 riders back and trying to find a way to move up (along with everyone else) and was able to pick off a couple guys in the narrow section, out accelerate in the final corner and sprint on the headwind side (to avoid traffic) to finish in 22nd. 100 meters to go, behind me and to my left I heard more of the dreaded sound. Roemer is taken down by some other guy and lands on the sidewalk, cracking ribs. Briggs holds his own and is only beaten by phenom Rich Meeker. Mack inexplicably finishes only five places in front of me.
So I'm a little dissapointed but in all honesty the race did not shape up to be one that I had a realistic expectation of doing well in. Hoewever, in the 50-54, the race blew apart from the start, with groups coalescing and re-fragmenting. Big Bubba Melcher put in a hell of a ballsy ride to ultimately solo in for the win, Northern Cal riders finishing with four of the top five in that one. I wish I was in that race! I guess I have something to look forward to when I turn 50.
Road Race tomorrow. I'm off to pre-ride the course now.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
The Run-up to Nationals
A big reason I decided to actually have a racing year this year was that the national championships, for the first time in many years, is being held on the west coast, a simple car drive up to Bend as oppposed to Pennsylvania or Kentucky as in the last several years.
For the past six weeks I've been tailoring my training program so that I will be in peak condition for Friday (crit) and Sunday (RR). To that extent the last three races before nationals were important for me to be competitive, but ultimately the purpose was to serve the interest of nationals prep.
---
Tuesday Night Twilights #7, 23 August
This was the first TNT since the six week break for the county fair. As such, the sun was going down early, and for the last race of the night I ended up swapping out my sunglasses for regular ones so I could actually see while racing the last handful of laps.
Several espoirs (young pros) showed up for the race including a Fireman pro rider, Ryan Eastman (LiveStrong), a McGuire rider, Pistacchio's Taylor Bertrand-Barrett and John Piasta ('boy wonder'). Three Echelonistas, the Red Menace (Red Peloton), a strong and light Rob Dillion, Colavitas, a couple Bobas, Organic Athlete, NorCal's Dr. Todd as well as several others filled out the field.
It was the last ride of my black and yellow BMC RaceMaster, as I had procured a new RaceMaster to replace her as she had started corroding on her aluminum downtube near the water bottle cage, and I was losing confidence because of this.
I felt awesome. Like the race was my personal plaything. Early on I bridged to a group of three in solo fashion, super clean. Soon enough four other riders make the bridge and that was that, we were the train that left the station. We just kept the pressure on without totally drilling it, and we ended up finishing a long way ahead of the rest of the peloton, a minute, maybe two.
I could have tried to break up our break by attacking late but had confidence in my sprint and wanted to try it out. Well, in the final 300 meters Dr. Todd moved me off Teeter's wheel in the Mexican Village section of the course, almost taking me into the decorative pillar and I lost a little speed and as such finished 5th. Mike Charleton took a fine sprint with Alex Brookhouse second.
---
Saturday 27 August was the Winters Road Race, a great, hard course west of Davis. I signed up with the 35+ masters 1-2-3 because my 45+ field was prematurely filled up. First time with the new bike. Red, white and black. (I need a whole new cycling wardrobe to match the bike!)
This one turned out to be Safeway vs. Specialized. Safeway had the numbers and great talent. Specialized had two strong riders and tenacity. Specialized routinely pulled the field up to each Safeway attack, and the first lap (of three) was so animated that our goup caught the 30+, Elite 3, and Women's fields that started ahead of us (27 mph first lap for a hilly road race!) When the climb came, it was in three sections which were tackled by the field basically in apeshit fashion--I was barely able to hold on! On the second lap on the long frontage road I bridged up to a group that had a Safeway rider in it that looked super-promising. We were all working well but once again Specialized brought the peloton back up to the break.
All this reactive riding from Specialized ended up being their downfall, as none of their riders cracked the top ten, having shelled themselves by working so hard, so early on. As for me, my legs more or less fell off my body on the second climb. At first I chased gamely with a few other peloton misfits, but when we all noticed that riding at 29 mph on the flats was holding us only steady at best, 1:30 down on the peloton, we all called it quits and headed into the pits. Personally I'm sticking to the excuse of my seat being set too high on my new bike. Safeway's Dan Martin won the race.
---
Vacaville GP the next day (28 Aug) was pretty hot, as you might expect Vacaville in the summer to be. The course was really fun as it was a figure eight shaped course which featured a short but hard climb and a couple turns that really test how far you feel comfortable leaning your bike over. I try and visualize those MotoGP riders leaning their crotchrockets all the way over and that helps ease the dread.
Again racing 35s, as there was no 45 race on offer. I had solved my seat height issue and felt quite a bit more powerful, and was in a couple breakaways, but none stuck. Midway through I tried to stay with Larry Nolan (Specialized), world champ that he is, as he attacked up the hill. Oh, ouch. I stayed with him okay, but I swear I lopped about seven years off my life in doing so. That particular break fizzled a lap and a half later, due to natural causes however.
With just two to go another Safeway rider takes off and the move smells good so I jump too but the peloton is too aroused and is on us, all those calories spent for naught.
And on the last lap I manage to find Larry's wheel in the middle of the field. He's moving up in a suspicious manner and I get on, ready for another launch on the hill. We're about 20 guys from the front but are moving up on the inside on the curve at the base of the hill when three guys go down right in front of us. As they are yelling at each other one of the fallen hotheads takes a swing at the other. I think they were still sliding! Well I couldn't see around Larry and jammed on the brakes so as not to be the 4th rider down. This of course screwed me for moving up rapidly on the climb, so all I could do was try and ride hard the rest of the way in. For 16th. Meanwhile Nolan's teammate Dean LaBerge stormed it in for the win.
Turns out the Winters RR winner, Dan Martin, was one of the dudes to hit the deck. He tells me after the race that he dislocated his shoulder in that pileup. But, he tells me, he popped it back in to place while he was lying there, in the middle of the road, with a busted bike and a ripped up jersey. He showed me how he did it. He said it hurt. I guess you could say he's a tough guy.
---
So now I'm in Bend, with my criterium nationals race tomorrow. I really don't know how I'm feeling fitness-wise as the last time I pedalled hard was Sunday, in Vacaville. Coach Laurel Green, who looked over my six-week schedule, told me emphatically to just rest, so that I've done. Meanwhile riders from all over the country are here to throw it down. (in Vacaville, I ran into a group slowly making it up from San Diego in a motor home -- shiftless itinerant bike racers! What, you couldn't get tickets to Burning Man?)
So I'll have no idea if I'll be competitive. I guess I'll know tomorrow.
For the past six weeks I've been tailoring my training program so that I will be in peak condition for Friday (crit) and Sunday (RR). To that extent the last three races before nationals were important for me to be competitive, but ultimately the purpose was to serve the interest of nationals prep.
---
Tuesday Night Twilights #7, 23 August
This was the first TNT since the six week break for the county fair. As such, the sun was going down early, and for the last race of the night I ended up swapping out my sunglasses for regular ones so I could actually see while racing the last handful of laps.
Several espoirs (young pros) showed up for the race including a Fireman pro rider, Ryan Eastman (LiveStrong), a McGuire rider, Pistacchio's Taylor Bertrand-Barrett and John Piasta ('boy wonder'). Three Echelonistas, the Red Menace (Red Peloton), a strong and light Rob Dillion, Colavitas, a couple Bobas, Organic Athlete, NorCal's Dr. Todd as well as several others filled out the field.
It was the last ride of my black and yellow BMC RaceMaster, as I had procured a new RaceMaster to replace her as she had started corroding on her aluminum downtube near the water bottle cage, and I was losing confidence because of this.
I felt awesome. Like the race was my personal plaything. Early on I bridged to a group of three in solo fashion, super clean. Soon enough four other riders make the bridge and that was that, we were the train that left the station. We just kept the pressure on without totally drilling it, and we ended up finishing a long way ahead of the rest of the peloton, a minute, maybe two.
I could have tried to break up our break by attacking late but had confidence in my sprint and wanted to try it out. Well, in the final 300 meters Dr. Todd moved me off Teeter's wheel in the Mexican Village section of the course, almost taking me into the decorative pillar and I lost a little speed and as such finished 5th. Mike Charleton took a fine sprint with Alex Brookhouse second.
---
Saturday 27 August was the Winters Road Race, a great, hard course west of Davis. I signed up with the 35+ masters 1-2-3 because my 45+ field was prematurely filled up. First time with the new bike. Red, white and black. (I need a whole new cycling wardrobe to match the bike!)
This one turned out to be Safeway vs. Specialized. Safeway had the numbers and great talent. Specialized had two strong riders and tenacity. Specialized routinely pulled the field up to each Safeway attack, and the first lap (of three) was so animated that our goup caught the 30+, Elite 3, and Women's fields that started ahead of us (27 mph first lap for a hilly road race!) When the climb came, it was in three sections which were tackled by the field basically in apeshit fashion--I was barely able to hold on! On the second lap on the long frontage road I bridged up to a group that had a Safeway rider in it that looked super-promising. We were all working well but once again Specialized brought the peloton back up to the break.
All this reactive riding from Specialized ended up being their downfall, as none of their riders cracked the top ten, having shelled themselves by working so hard, so early on. As for me, my legs more or less fell off my body on the second climb. At first I chased gamely with a few other peloton misfits, but when we all noticed that riding at 29 mph on the flats was holding us only steady at best, 1:30 down on the peloton, we all called it quits and headed into the pits. Personally I'm sticking to the excuse of my seat being set too high on my new bike. Safeway's Dan Martin won the race.
---
Vacaville GP the next day (28 Aug) was pretty hot, as you might expect Vacaville in the summer to be. The course was really fun as it was a figure eight shaped course which featured a short but hard climb and a couple turns that really test how far you feel comfortable leaning your bike over. I try and visualize those MotoGP riders leaning their crotchrockets all the way over and that helps ease the dread.
Again racing 35s, as there was no 45 race on offer. I had solved my seat height issue and felt quite a bit more powerful, and was in a couple breakaways, but none stuck. Midway through I tried to stay with Larry Nolan (Specialized), world champ that he is, as he attacked up the hill. Oh, ouch. I stayed with him okay, but I swear I lopped about seven years off my life in doing so. That particular break fizzled a lap and a half later, due to natural causes however.
With just two to go another Safeway rider takes off and the move smells good so I jump too but the peloton is too aroused and is on us, all those calories spent for naught.
And on the last lap I manage to find Larry's wheel in the middle of the field. He's moving up in a suspicious manner and I get on, ready for another launch on the hill. We're about 20 guys from the front but are moving up on the inside on the curve at the base of the hill when three guys go down right in front of us. As they are yelling at each other one of the fallen hotheads takes a swing at the other. I think they were still sliding! Well I couldn't see around Larry and jammed on the brakes so as not to be the 4th rider down. This of course screwed me for moving up rapidly on the climb, so all I could do was try and ride hard the rest of the way in. For 16th. Meanwhile Nolan's teammate Dean LaBerge stormed it in for the win.
Turns out the Winters RR winner, Dan Martin, was one of the dudes to hit the deck. He tells me after the race that he dislocated his shoulder in that pileup. But, he tells me, he popped it back in to place while he was lying there, in the middle of the road, with a busted bike and a ripped up jersey. He showed me how he did it. He said it hurt. I guess you could say he's a tough guy.
---
So now I'm in Bend, with my criterium nationals race tomorrow. I really don't know how I'm feeling fitness-wise as the last time I pedalled hard was Sunday, in Vacaville. Coach Laurel Green, who looked over my six-week schedule, told me emphatically to just rest, so that I've done. Meanwhile riders from all over the country are here to throw it down. (in Vacaville, I ran into a group slowly making it up from San Diego in a motor home -- shiftless itinerant bike racers! What, you couldn't get tickets to Burning Man?)
So I'll have no idea if I'll be competitive. I guess I'll know tomorrow.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Anecdote or Fable
One afternoon late last week I was out doing intervals on High School Road. There is a stretch there that is ideal for riding the dreaded one-minute interval, a distance short enough that requires riding flat out, yet long enough that the hurt builds to a cross-eyed crescendo in the last 15 seconds.
With the one minute interval there is no hiding. Either you are fit and can handle the high speed and general anaerobic abuse you throw at yourself or you cannot. For me, they are extremely hard to do and I only attempt them under two conditions: 1. When training for some specific goal, and 2. When I have enough fitness that I can complete six of them without my sixth one being 10% slower than my first.
The upside to these devilish things is that you end up with a measurable jump of explosive power and speed. Useful tools indeed if you are trying to be a bicycle racer.
Each interval would end at the intersection at Occidental Road, with me turning right, passing the "Sebastopol Swamp" blueberry stand. Every time. And every time I would imagine cutting my session short and stopping for a pint of blueberries, how good they must taste.
Interval #5 in 1:15. I had to bribe myself into doing the sixth and final one, and do it well. I told myself if I could match my #5 interval time I would reward myself with a pint of blueberries.
#6 came and I was able to ride hard one final time. A burning smear to the finish. 1:14. Pleased, I warmed down and rolled to the fruit stand just as it was closing up for the day. One pint, $5. She put the berries into a paper bag.
Riding back to my office, one hand holding the bag open, I had a handful. As fantastic as you might imagine. Maybe better. Then I thought: It's just Gabe (my 12-year old) home tonight for dinner. We'll have fresh blueberries on vanilla ice cream for dessert. Okay, that means don't plow through the whole bag, just have one more handful and that's it, okay?
I reach down for my last handful and the bag is feeling pretty light. Wait, what? I look down at the bag and then notice the hole in the bottom just as the last two blueberries spill out. A quick check back shows a meandering trail of little dark spheres on the road marking where I had come from.
It's at times like these you just gotta laugh a little. And then try to find the moral of the story, to see if the anecdote can be elevated to fable status. So here's my takeaway:
"The only blueberries you really have are the ones in your mouth."
With the one minute interval there is no hiding. Either you are fit and can handle the high speed and general anaerobic abuse you throw at yourself or you cannot. For me, they are extremely hard to do and I only attempt them under two conditions: 1. When training for some specific goal, and 2. When I have enough fitness that I can complete six of them without my sixth one being 10% slower than my first.
The upside to these devilish things is that you end up with a measurable jump of explosive power and speed. Useful tools indeed if you are trying to be a bicycle racer.
Each interval would end at the intersection at Occidental Road, with me turning right, passing the "Sebastopol Swamp" blueberry stand. Every time. And every time I would imagine cutting my session short and stopping for a pint of blueberries, how good they must taste.
Interval #5 in 1:15. I had to bribe myself into doing the sixth and final one, and do it well. I told myself if I could match my #5 interval time I would reward myself with a pint of blueberries.
#6 came and I was able to ride hard one final time. A burning smear to the finish. 1:14. Pleased, I warmed down and rolled to the fruit stand just as it was closing up for the day. One pint, $5. She put the berries into a paper bag.
Riding back to my office, one hand holding the bag open, I had a handful. As fantastic as you might imagine. Maybe better. Then I thought: It's just Gabe (my 12-year old) home tonight for dinner. We'll have fresh blueberries on vanilla ice cream for dessert. Okay, that means don't plow through the whole bag, just have one more handful and that's it, okay?
I reach down for my last handful and the bag is feeling pretty light. Wait, what? I look down at the bag and then notice the hole in the bottom just as the last two blueberries spill out. A quick check back shows a meandering trail of little dark spheres on the road marking where I had come from.
It's at times like these you just gotta laugh a little. And then try to find the moral of the story, to see if the anecdote can be elevated to fable status. So here's my takeaway:
"The only blueberries you really have are the ones in your mouth."
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Dunnigan Hills Road Race
Dunnigan Hills Road Race
Masters 45+ 1-2-3
13 August 2011
Dunnigan Hills was on the calendar as the capper to a very two hard week block I was doing as part of the periodization for the national championships coming up in early September. I decided to do this race as it offered not just racing miles but gobs of them. My event was 86 miles, and though largely flat, there were some rolling hills that could be tackled in the big chainring, and being in the central valley, there was always the spectre of wind and heat to deal with.
My carpool buddy for this ride was Juliette (Joules) Olson of Red Racing. Our trip out in the morning was uneventful other than her penchant for computing while driving (at one point trying to show me a photo of her new boyfriend while simultaneously exiting the freeway, which resulted in a significant 'cargo shift event' of bikes in our laps and my breakfast sloshed on the floorboard). For my part I continually either missed giving her directional queues or was just spacing out (easy for me to do at 5 am). The net result was once there we had to put a hurt on it to make our start times.
The cycling hordes descended on the super small Town of Yolo, hundreds of cars and even more high-zoot bikes constantly rolling off the freeway and into a single empty gravel lot. Lots of bright colors, tan lines, carbon, dust.
May I say here that of all the items that have benefitted by technology over the last 20 years, one of the most-improved may not be the telephone or the hybrid auto but perhaps the honey bucket/porta-potty/johnny-on-the-spot. Seriously! The modern portable 'loo is a pretty amazing device. Here at Dunnigan, 20 or so lined up, getting heavy use, all working well. No smells. And a hand-washing station! These statements could not be made of the outhouses of old.
35 or so old goats lined up for this volley in the valley. Morgan Stanley, Safeway, Clover were present in addition to a bunch of big strong looking dudes from Davis and Sacramento (they seem to grow them big out there).
35 riders with not a one willing to pull us all along made for an awkward spectacle. Finally a group of about eight got away but never more than a minute, this felt better as now the pack would work to at least keep tabs on the break. From 505 frontage road to rolling farm road, the break was just at the verge of being far enough away to be a concern.
At about mile 35, past truck stops and produce terminals, Don Langley (Morgan Stanley) jumps away and makes a beautiful bridge across the 30 seconds of space between our two groups. Immediately this break becomes more important with him in it, as he is a "macher" (as they say among my yiddishly-hip friends).
Another barrage at the front yields Chris Black (also Morgan Stanley) taking off to jump across. He's also one to watch and with those two gone it was just too much to lay back and bide my time, so I went after Mr. Black, caught him, and the two of us made it to the front group almost as elegantly as Langley.
We were now a group of 10, 25 or so seconds off the front, but the organization was weak. Only half the guys were working. The other half were eating (or were they all texting?) The upshot was that even though we had the bulk of the strong guys here with us, the cohesion was gone and we weren't making the break stick. And there's only so much I can or want to do by myself to change matters. Meanwhile behind us a concerted chase was being conducted. Sadly, we were caught at around mile 50, just as we hit the neutral feed zone.
Velo Promo events are famous for giving out T-Shirts for prizes. But I learned they are also famous for the flavor of their neutral support water: Mine was distinctly brown tadpole flavored. No matter. When you're in the valley, in August, at mile 50 of a road race, you simply aren't going to insist on the Evian.
I drifted back through the feed zone, getting two big bottles, and sucking them dry for the most part. But during that time Robert Pasco (Safeway), one of the other riders to watch for, carved five riders off the front with him and noodled up the road, in the slight crosswind, when the rest of us were sloshing about with our water.
The gap they got was not very much, just 30 meters, then 40. I was suprised that the chuckleheads 20 riders in front of me weren't putting their foot on the gas to close that small gap. But they let it open and then as the road turned right and into headwind, Pasco punched it and opened a big gap between his group and our suddenly unwilling pack, with none of us up to making an effective chase.
I tried to marshall the forces, but for some reason the two MoStan dudes and the Clover rider (O'niel, also strong as all hell), didn't want to put their time in at the front. Eventually some guys did roll through to help me out, but it was spastic and short lived. The result is the break that noodled out of the station built up a solid lead of well over three minutes.
After initial frustration that I had signed up for a bicycle race and found myself in a bicycle ride, I became resigned to my fate and was happy rolling in with this laughing group. With ten miles to go though Langley and O'Niel took off as if they were back in some sort of event where riding hard somehow mattered, gaining time instantly and building on that quickly. Why they didn't keep the race honest earlier is completely beyond me. I mean it's one thing to race hard for the win, but to drill it just so you have 7th and 8th place locked up in a Velo Promo event seems, well, not MENSA-quality logic shall we say.
In the run up to the finish I was fighting off calf cramps but had the suds to contest the field sprint for 9th. I had a good time playing journeyman riding on the leadout trains of the Rocknasium and Davis riders, but when the final left hand turn was made and 1.4 km remained, there was a re-shuffling that again saw me and Chris Black at the front.
When we got the stenciled sandwich board announcing 200 meters I hit out and had a good lead, but started fading a bit and was snagged on the line by a resurgent Black. Good enough for 10th. Out of the T shirt money okay, but on the other hand I had ridden hard through the week including the day before and had not even tried to recover to be fresh for this one. So between the training issues and having to race with strong riders who seemingly race against their own self-interest, I guess it was a good enough showing.
Masters 45+ 1-2-3
13 August 2011
Dunnigan Hills was on the calendar as the capper to a very two hard week block I was doing as part of the periodization for the national championships coming up in early September. I decided to do this race as it offered not just racing miles but gobs of them. My event was 86 miles, and though largely flat, there were some rolling hills that could be tackled in the big chainring, and being in the central valley, there was always the spectre of wind and heat to deal with.
My carpool buddy for this ride was Juliette (Joules) Olson of Red Racing. Our trip out in the morning was uneventful other than her penchant for computing while driving (at one point trying to show me a photo of her new boyfriend while simultaneously exiting the freeway, which resulted in a significant 'cargo shift event' of bikes in our laps and my breakfast sloshed on the floorboard). For my part I continually either missed giving her directional queues or was just spacing out (easy for me to do at 5 am). The net result was once there we had to put a hurt on it to make our start times.
The cycling hordes descended on the super small Town of Yolo, hundreds of cars and even more high-zoot bikes constantly rolling off the freeway and into a single empty gravel lot. Lots of bright colors, tan lines, carbon, dust.
May I say here that of all the items that have benefitted by technology over the last 20 years, one of the most-improved may not be the telephone or the hybrid auto but perhaps the honey bucket/porta-potty/johnny-on-the-spot. Seriously! The modern portable 'loo is a pretty amazing device. Here at Dunnigan, 20 or so lined up, getting heavy use, all working well. No smells. And a hand-washing station! These statements could not be made of the outhouses of old.
35 or so old goats lined up for this volley in the valley. Morgan Stanley, Safeway, Clover were present in addition to a bunch of big strong looking dudes from Davis and Sacramento (they seem to grow them big out there).
35 riders with not a one willing to pull us all along made for an awkward spectacle. Finally a group of about eight got away but never more than a minute, this felt better as now the pack would work to at least keep tabs on the break. From 505 frontage road to rolling farm road, the break was just at the verge of being far enough away to be a concern.
At about mile 35, past truck stops and produce terminals, Don Langley (Morgan Stanley) jumps away and makes a beautiful bridge across the 30 seconds of space between our two groups. Immediately this break becomes more important with him in it, as he is a "macher" (as they say among my yiddishly-hip friends).
Another barrage at the front yields Chris Black (also Morgan Stanley) taking off to jump across. He's also one to watch and with those two gone it was just too much to lay back and bide my time, so I went after Mr. Black, caught him, and the two of us made it to the front group almost as elegantly as Langley.
We were now a group of 10, 25 or so seconds off the front, but the organization was weak. Only half the guys were working. The other half were eating (or were they all texting?) The upshot was that even though we had the bulk of the strong guys here with us, the cohesion was gone and we weren't making the break stick. And there's only so much I can or want to do by myself to change matters. Meanwhile behind us a concerted chase was being conducted. Sadly, we were caught at around mile 50, just as we hit the neutral feed zone.
Velo Promo events are famous for giving out T-Shirts for prizes. But I learned they are also famous for the flavor of their neutral support water: Mine was distinctly brown tadpole flavored. No matter. When you're in the valley, in August, at mile 50 of a road race, you simply aren't going to insist on the Evian.
I drifted back through the feed zone, getting two big bottles, and sucking them dry for the most part. But during that time Robert Pasco (Safeway), one of the other riders to watch for, carved five riders off the front with him and noodled up the road, in the slight crosswind, when the rest of us were sloshing about with our water.
The gap they got was not very much, just 30 meters, then 40. I was suprised that the chuckleheads 20 riders in front of me weren't putting their foot on the gas to close that small gap. But they let it open and then as the road turned right and into headwind, Pasco punched it and opened a big gap between his group and our suddenly unwilling pack, with none of us up to making an effective chase.
I tried to marshall the forces, but for some reason the two MoStan dudes and the Clover rider (O'niel, also strong as all hell), didn't want to put their time in at the front. Eventually some guys did roll through to help me out, but it was spastic and short lived. The result is the break that noodled out of the station built up a solid lead of well over three minutes.
After initial frustration that I had signed up for a bicycle race and found myself in a bicycle ride, I became resigned to my fate and was happy rolling in with this laughing group. With ten miles to go though Langley and O'Niel took off as if they were back in some sort of event where riding hard somehow mattered, gaining time instantly and building on that quickly. Why they didn't keep the race honest earlier is completely beyond me. I mean it's one thing to race hard for the win, but to drill it just so you have 7th and 8th place locked up in a Velo Promo event seems, well, not MENSA-quality logic shall we say.
In the run up to the finish I was fighting off calf cramps but had the suds to contest the field sprint for 9th. I had a good time playing journeyman riding on the leadout trains of the Rocknasium and Davis riders, but when the final left hand turn was made and 1.4 km remained, there was a re-shuffling that again saw me and Chris Black at the front.
When we got the stenciled sandwich board announcing 200 meters I hit out and had a good lead, but started fading a bit and was snagged on the line by a resurgent Black. Good enough for 10th. Out of the T shirt money okay, but on the other hand I had ridden hard through the week including the day before and had not even tried to recover to be fresh for this one. So between the training issues and having to race with strong riders who seemingly race against their own self-interest, I guess it was a good enough showing.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Colavita Grand Prix
Colavita Grand Prix
15 July 2011
Masters 45+123
(also) Masters 35+123
To date, this season has been spent refining the racing ritual: how early to show up for a race, how much to stretch, eat, warm up. The dogma of doing everything right, in the proper order, might tickle the gods into a fickle smile and grant you your small request of having the race you've always wanted. It's through moments like these that I can understand how religions get started.
The Colavita GP is put on by our good friends on the Colavita team. The race is held at the Fireman's Fund HQ in Novato, a large campus with a 1.25 (or so) mile perimiter loop which is safe for racing but is almost without any features that can help break up the field. I raced here last year and noted that nothing got away in any of the races I had either competed in or watched.
For this race my warm-up ritual was nearly perfect. Not to get too bogged down on the details, but the stretching, warm-up, 'breathe right' strip application (& mentholatum in the nostrils!), pre-race cytomax, roller ride at zone 3 (with 111 pedal strokes in zone 4), prayer to isis/apollo/Flying Spaghetti Monster and proper tyre inflation complete, it was time to show up on the line.
25 guys had decided to suit up and pin on a number, and looking around I noticed there were no Specialized superstars, and the beast that is team Safeway was without its head that is Gregg Bettonte. Neither was Bubba Melcher (Clover). A few strong-looking fellas were here for sure (Taleo, Morgan Stanley, Sweeney and Walker from Boba, Max Mack in super bright pink kit) but the odds looked good for me to do well. The only problem was the course: As my sprint isn't bankable, and the race always comes down to a sprint, I was in a strategic conundrum. I decided I would attack hard on the only little hill on the course, which offered a snoot full of wind, but if I could get a gap there on the last lap I might be able to hold it for about 600 meters to the line.
The race started and I was active, looking to see if I could take a few guys away with me and maybe reduce the odds, though nothing could really leave the gate. The promoters stacked a lot of primes in this race, and though it appeared like lots of riders wanted to keep the race together, surprisingly few were interested in going for primes. I nabbed one prime by jumping hard at the final downhill curve and shooting down the tailwind finishing stretch at good speed, with no one coming along to challenge.
Other riders had their hand at primes. When a rider goes for a prime it can reveal their technique for the final, so I made note of their strengths and points of attack; testing my 600 meter theory against what they were doing to see if the idea still held up. I felt it did.
Still focused on primes and not so much on trying to get away, Another prime bell was rung and once around to the final curve the leading group hadn't drilled it, and I thought, hey what the hell I'll try to scoop up one more. I was able to hit the turn pretty hard, pass the quartet in front of me and sprint to the line, once again, alone. As it turns out, a pack of caffeinated mocha gels.
Crossing the line I saw the 4 to go lap card, and instead of sitting up like last time, I kept going, pretty hard but not full gas. By the end of the straightaway I had a quick 15 seconds on the field. This solo breaking away business was certainly not my intention, but when the field gives you that much time with five miles left in the race, well my mother taught me that it's impolite to decline such gifts.
So going against the history of this course, I committed to a solo bid. 3 to go: Friends there looked up at the S/F and noted my position. 2 to go: more people at the finish, shouts of encouragement. 1 to go: my lead had built to about 25 seconds, all kinds of people yelling for me, and all I had to do was not screw up. Richard Peacock of HSBG Spoke Folk was on the backstretch going ape, screaming in his british accent. "Blimey matey, press on, then!" (or was it 'give it a shove, you sodden wank' I don't remember exactly as I was getting pretty tired.)
In the fast part of the course I made the rookie mistake, transitioning from drops to tops of the bars, hitting a road dot and almost coming off my bike. But I kept it up, extreme irony averted. and rode in with enough time to zip up the jersey, wipe most of the snool from my puss and contemplate what sort of pose I should adopt when I cross the line. I went with your standard "solid" fist (think Undercover Brother).
It's a fantastic feeling, this winning a race business. Doing it solo is especially rewarding. I highly recommend it.
The Masters 35+ 1-2-3 race started right after, so I was able to get one number clipped off of me and the race started right away; as sort of a joke I jumped hard at the beginning and found myself in a three-man break. We were going flat out and I was really, really at my limit. I realized the joke was on me as my group was caught and I almost shelled out the back straight away. Though I did hold on and ride "tailgun" for the rest of the race, certain that my earlier race was an outlier and this race for sure would come down to a sprint.
As it happened, the best riders in the field apparently all went with a move about 2/3 of the way through the event, leaving the group I was in (about 25 of us forlorn souls) rather motorless. I took it easy, thinking that the doomed break would drift backwards at some point, but when they got out of sight, I guess I had to admit that breaks actually can get off on this course.
On the last lap I was able to try out my nifty 600 meter move. It worked. For 14th. So I'll keep that one in my pocket for next year maybe.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Wetwork
At the beginning of the race, the target you had identified to me was having trouble moving up in the 70+ rider field (he confided in me earlier that it was his first race all year). I took notice of this as I was able to make it to the front but knew the pace was so hard that no breaks could survive.
Satisfied thusly, I set about my cruel task: I drifted back to where he was and noted that he was consistently taking turn 3, a hard right hander in a place with no spectators, pretty wide every time. When we were at about 10 laps to go I drifted back to just in front of him and as we approached turn 3, made sure to pin him against my left hip. At the beginning of the turn I began wide, then went steadily wider until I was barely grazing the barricades myself, with his front wheel pinned between my rear wheel and the metal. It didn't take long before I heard the familiar sounds of cracking carbon, the scrape of body parts on the road and snap of a bone or two. A couple bystanding racers were unfortunately involved, one of them running off the course and plowing into a hedge, the other a mass of road rash (sorry about that, guys).
Feigning concern, I swung back around to inspect the damage. He was down alright, whimpering and wedged as he was with what was left of his bike between pavement and barricade, other parts scattered about as if he had been dropped from five stories. A slack-jawed five-year old boy was my only witness as I shifted into the small chainring, exposing the big ring.
I got back up to speed and was careening straight at him when our eyes met. It was at that moment he realized who I was and why I was here. He yelled "Not the legs! Please not the legs! She sent you to do it, didn't she?" as I rode over him with the exposed, hungry big chainring, churning away as his screams echoed off the buildings.
Before the racers came round again I sprayed off as much blood off the bottom of my bike as I could with my water bottle, let some air out of the front wheel and rolled around to the pit, feigning a puncture.
No one was the wiser, and thank you for promptly sending the second half payment by the usual method.
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