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.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Boba TTT (four-rider format)
Boba 4-Rider Team Time Trial
05 July 2011
Just like in the Tour the local boys organize a TTT for us to get out the weird looking aero gear and throw it down on a course that takes us from Helen Putnam Park down Chileno Valley and back toward Petaluma. This time the format was for just four riders (instead of the usual nine) and the finish was earlier, before the Albanian simuation crap roads of Spring Hill Rd. Time is taken on the finish of the third rider, so only one rider is expendable.
Lately for these team time trials I have to show up and try to get on a team that has an open spot. Sometimes I'm snubbed. It reminds me of the formative experience of asking girls out for prom in HS and getting repeatedly rejected.
Well because I've been riding well relative to previous years, this time I could savor being courted by three different teams. So as it turns out, the race before the race is to figure out who you are racing with.
Big boy Jonathan Teeter (Echelon) contacted me with only hours to go, asking me if I wanted in. Sure, I tell him. I know him to be amazingly strong. He said he also had some guy named Glen on our team. I didn't know a Glen but if Jonathan would vouch for him then I would be happy with that. We agreed to look around and try to pick up a fourth at the race.
Jonathan has been so damned strong in the Tues night races I was a little intimidated. So when I show up to the TTT, I find Jonathan with his funky acid green TT rig and ask him what Glen looks like so I can find him. "He'll be in team Bissell kit." Oh shit you mean Glen Mitchell? Former 2x Olympian and Bissell Pro? I was starting to get a little nervous.
Then we couldn't find a fourth guy for our team. This means no one was expendable. So our team consisted of a current raging bull, a former pro/olympian, and me. And I can't get dropped. That's a scary proposition.
All of us TTT freaks swarmed in the parking lot. We must have looked like a casting call for a cheap sci-fi movie where aliens land outside some jerkwater town. They let us go in one minute intervals. They start us and I'm too nervous to get my pedal in. Eventually, we're all doing even turns. The gusty crosswind making playthings of our front wheels. This can get problematic when one is steering with one's elbows and within centimeters of the rider in front.
In rotation, after I come off, Teeter would drill it every time. The hardest part of the TTT is dosing your effort so you give almost everything while you are pulling, but leaving just that little bit to hop back on when you get to the back. Teeter was not making this part any easier. Try going flat out for 40 seconds then sprinting for 15, settling back down to only 90% of your max, and then doing it again. And again.
Coming over and down the first big hill I got it to what I thought was back up to speed and then Teeter comes by me, way, way faster. Glen and I are spinning the eleven trying to stay with this guy. In just four minutes we catch the team that started a minute ahead of us.
The course turns right to follow Chileno. Teeter (in some sort of zone we can only speculate) goes straight. Glen and I yell at him as we turn right, on the course. But these damned sci-fi aero helmets are so loud no one can hear anything. Well Glen and I have a laugh over this, imagining Jonathan figuring out his mistake some 20km later, at the town of Marshall.
The team we passed earlier pass Glen and I back.
A couple sips of hummingbird food later and a check back yields an acid green shape coming up to us at warp speed. Oh shit, game back on!
Glen and I spend the rest of our TTT basically groveling behind the raging fuselage of Jonathan Teeter. I pulled maybe once or twice more. Not sure if Glen pulled any more at all.
During Jonathan's big effort we passed five to seven more teams. it was a big blur. My own condition ranged between "fairly exhausted" to "black out gone." Getting dropped was not an option. Though riding behind Glen I could consistently stay in the aero bars, my front wheel within 10 cm of his rear wheel. A real smooth and experienced rider like Glen allows you to ride closer, taking advantage of the increased aerodynamics.
We ended up in second place, only 40 seconds behind a four-man composite of espoirs/neo-pros. (Swift, Firemen, Cal-Giant). In my estimation Jonathan's wrong-way move cost us about a minute.
I figured Glen and I together, pulled for about only 15% of the time, Jonathan Teeter the balance. The boy is amazing! A freak of nature! Hopefully Glen will pick up this guy on the Bissell team for next year. I guess I was the unwitting bystander to his audition.
I felt a little sheepish and unworthy stepping up to claim the prize for second, as my job was essentially only to not get dropped. So the beer went to Jonathan, I was happy taking home equal measures of pride and humility.
Davis Fourth of July Criterium
Davis Criterium
04 July 2011
Masters 45+ 1-2-3
The Davis Criterium is another perennial race on the Northern California circuit, and is considered another classic downtown criterium. Owing to its location and place on the calendar, you can make some assumptions about how hot it is going to be. This year was no exception. Hot as blazes! I decided to go with unzipped skinsuit ('the Tom Jones look'), that plus two bottles of cold diluted cytomax, (basically hummingbird food), and I was good.
The race is a big "L" shape right thought the heard of the cycling Nirvana that is Davis California. Personally, I have an unfortunate history with this race: In '84, I watched my teammate Norm Gall crash halfway in the race, get back in, and crash again on the final lap. In 1992 I thought I had the suds to mix it up with the big boys, race day in Davis was 107° and I was cut loose from the remainder of the field, a molten mess of mitochondria, suffering from the intense heat (living in the outer Richmond was not adequate preparation, with it's three months of summer drizzle). Three years ago I did the 35+ race and had an outside shot at a place when two guys conducted a bit of argy-bargy ahead of me, dropping to the deck under my front wheel in turn 2 and I ended up somersaulting onto some ladies' lawn, surprisingly unscathed. Friends of mine have gone down on different parts of the course, breaking a wrist here, getting a badly infected road rash there. Though the course doesn't feel scary, it has a legacy.
In the race right before mine, Michael Boehme (Colavita) went down, all scrapes and torn skinsuit, busted rear wheel. He told me the circumstances of his mishap but I zoned out, knowing that the course is cruel and vindictive in general. Even though half of the course had been repaved, the bad juju still lurked.
Seventy guys rolled up to the start. As luck would have it I was at the back. Lots of aero wheels, 'spensive bikes, shaved legs, intensity on the line. This senior circuit does not give up much in competitiveness, let me tell you.
Once again no teammates, flying solo. It's intimidating starting at the very back of a race like this. Moving up implies to yourself and others that you are frankly a better bike rider than those you are passing. So then you just have to swallow the lie and believe you are one of the best blokes out there.
The first few laps were conducted pretty quickly, and I advanced positions as I could find them. Taking the inside of the curve allows you to control the curve, but may not be the fastest line. So it's a game of control and speed with a measure of daring. The straightaway affords a more simple proposition for advancement, but then many guys are thinking the same thing. My technique is to advance when it's easy to do so, and consolidate your gains when the racing gets hard.
Within four laps I had made it to more or less the front, and I had a chance to look around and see what teams were in play. The Gregg Bettonte (Safeway) retinue was present, as were two Specialized riders, Craig Roemer and big Larry Nolan. Patrick Briggs in his Yahoo! pro team kit was looking strong as well as a goodly amount of other solo adventurers like myself (Gregarius, Max [something] and Andy Nevitt (San Jose).
The bulky Nolan got off the front with one other strong guy but had only a little bit of rope when the course marshals flagged us and began shouting that the race was neutralized. The bunch of us at the front let off on the gas, but noticed Larry and breakmate were still drilling it. It took two laps for word to get to the homestretch (ref and announcer) that the race had been neutralized, to get a FD truck on the course.
Five laps under the caution flag and the race was re-started, with Nolan and other guy back in the fold. The race was lacking aggression but felt quick. It just needed to get crushingly fast for me to have a chance against a full field sprint. I tried working some efforts off the front but nothing was jelling.
Once again the backstretch boys neutralized the race (for what I have no idea), and for another four or five laps the race was under the caution flag. This was starting to feel like a stock car race. I knew that they would be restarting when we hit the S/F so on the last corner I opportunistically jumped pretty hard and got a gap but the ref was having none of it and did not re-start us because of me (I got a deserved earful upon my return to the field).
Now onto the proper restart, Big Bubba Melcher (Clover) with all his silver bracelet ornamentation goes up the road, followed in short order by a rather strong Safeway rider. I took off after those two and we all made contact about 5 sec. off the front. Bubba was tired, as was the Safeway rider. I was freshest so pulled through pretty hard. In breakaways you have to make these sorts of investments. Well sometimes investments go belly up, and such was the case as my breakmates remained to be inspired and we were re-absorbed right as the announcer announced four laps to go.
Four to go? We haven't barely even been racing properly long enough. No one is tired. A surge right as we were caught put me 30 places back, mired in 45+ anonymity. Everyone became twitchy, bitchy and anxious. Like Walmart on black Friday anxious. Moving up now was going to be a different beast.
It took three laps to haul my body past the other equally deserving fellas into a position of contention. Big bejeweled Bubba had re-taken flight earlier but was being caught right on the line at bell lap. The catch slowed the field enough for me to pick past a bunch of guys and turns 1 and 2 way on the inside, risking some but advancing to 7th or thereabouts, having recovered well and ready for a good sprint. I had even passed Larry Nolan on the inside.
The speed was high at turn 3, a 90° left hander. I chose a more outside line, thinking speed. At this moment (and it's a bit fuzzy for me but this is the best reconstruction I can muster), some streak comes in from the left and ahead of me (Nolan), sliding, and making contact with out the rider in front of me (Nevitt), knocking him over the high side of his bike (think of Beloki's famous crash in the tour). at 30+ mph, the two bodies are sliding in front of me, leaving me nowhere to go. I was able to straighten up the bike, jam on the brakes (may I put in a plug for VeloFlex tyres here?) and stop before I reached the curb, all the while absolutely frightened of being plowed from behind by some Starbuck-double-shotted jacked-up cabrón. But luckily that didn't happen.
The post-mortem? Patrick Briggs (Yahoo) hauls in Bettonte (Safeway) for the win. Meanwhile The Great Larry Nolan washes out on turn three, taking Andy Nevitt down, and me out of the running. soft pedal across for 35th, but Andy is unable to stand on his own. It turns out he broke the head of his right femur in three places, just like Beloki, which sucks.
This Davis is no course for old men!
Friday, July 1, 2011
Twilight Criterium #7
Tuesday Night Twilight Criterium
21 June 2011
Elite Race
If Machiavelli was around today and not involved in political consulting (and didn't mind shaving his legs from time to time), he would most certainly be a bicycle racer -- a sport where treachery is often, but not always, rewarded.
(again please forgive the lengthiness. I'm stuck on an airplane presently and have no real incentive for brevity)
We had a good, but smaller group take the start Tuesday night, including pro Sterling (Pistachio), a Kelly Benefits pro, a Bissell pro, a trio of Echelon riders, Dr Todd (Team NorCal), a couple strong kids from some team in a grey and red kit, four Red Peloton riders, an Organic Athlete, the usual Boba suspects and a smattering of others racing under a golden and delightfully lingering summer's sun.
I started the race agressive yet wary; noting that Dr. Todd rides for the attack, and anticipating some fireworks from the professionals among us. And the Kelly Benefits pro did not dissapoint! He leapt out early and often, both as a soloist and with other riders. He rode with aggression and abandon and I could only marvel at his ability to quickly recover and go again. Had I been on his program I would have detonated completely by the second or third lap. One dangerous move had this guy join forces with Dr. Todd and a rocketing Sterling (with new matching lime green shoes -- only Sterling can pull off such sartorial excess), and the three put their heads down and took off. Fortunately their raid was regarded quickly by all who could lend a hand in the chase and were remanded back to the vigilant peloton in rather short order.
I've been getting more comfortable wrestling this torturous course with my supa-deep pimped-out tubular wheels. The trick is to forget about it. So midrace I pounded the bottom of the course (the speedbump, metal coverings, hairpin turn and lumpy road junction) and got away by the fairground's mexican village with 400 meters to the line to grab a prime but noticed ace sprinter Mike Charleton (Red Peloton) right on my wheel. If I kept up my effort to the line a guy with his speed would cruise comfortably past me for the prize, leaving me with an armload of nothing, so I immediately swung wide and sat up, forcing him to sprint the whole way on his own, which he did without hesitation. Mike also picked up another prime earlier. He's riding really well.
Sterling then stabs hard, putting us all into difficulty but not getting the kill he wanted. He did succeed however in detaching a good handful of riders, and for the next several laps we would be rolling past all these shelled guys. Immediately came the riposte from that big Echelon kid (what, 19 yrs old?) as he jumps hard, going clear when we're all gasping from Sterling's earlier move. Dr. Todd, Mike Charleton, Alex Brookhouse and I get clear a few moments later in pursuit of the big kid.
Treachery! Alex won't work as his teammate is up the road. So Dr. Todd, Mike and I are killing it, working together well to both consolidate a bit of a gap and try and get up to that big kid, who is doing an amazing job of holding us off. At this point he has five seconds on us, and we have seven seconds on what is left of the regrouping field.
After a couple laps of this, Sterling, the Kelly Benefits pro and a couple other guys slowly make it up to us.
Big kid is still off, we're all tired from our break, and the riders who caught us are gassed from their effort. Like the bridge in a pop song, this part of the race is the fulcrum where the whole thing hinges and can spin off in any direciton. As a cyclist you want to be able to do two things -- identify this point in the race, and be in the position to do something about it.
Well Alex Brookhouse had it wired. We had been giving him an armchair ride for a few laps as we toiled to catch his teammate up the road, and when we were caught instead, Alex, relatively freshest among those of us at the sharp end of the race, attacks emphatically, just burying it. Fortunately I was in a position where I could respond, though not nearly as crisply. I found myself chasing Alex by two seconds and not making any headway on him but the two of us were catching the big kid rather quickly.
Alex catches the big kid and their moment's hesitation allows me to do the same, letting me be the third, and outnumbered, member of this leading trio. Behind us, there is not much fight left in the peloton and we earn an immediate gap.
The always fashionable Frank Ammirata working the S/F rings the bell for another prime. I'm reasonably sure our break has a fighting chance, so was not planning on stabbing my breakmates in the back with an attack to win the prime. That plus if I was a keg, say, I would be getting pretty flat.
We cyclists remember not only our adversaries' strengths and weaknesses, but also our actions, our deeds and misdeeds, our slights and our favors. Alex remembers me busting up a break we were in a month or so ago for a prime. The big kid remembers me beating him for a different prime. And I need no memory at all to realize that hanging out off the front with these two is keeping me at my physical limit.
The three of us, with a couple shouted and grunted words decide not to contest the prime and as I happened to be pulling through across the line was declared the prime winner. But we were all focused on staying away.
When you are in a break with two riders of the same team, it's understood that the two riders will probably do to three things: 1. work a little harder than you will, as collectively they have a better shot at success than you, 2. complain bitterly that you are not working as hard as they, and 3. As you approach finish, work you over so they are assured the victory by one rider or the other.
"Come on, Pepper! We need you!" Brookhouse shouts at the top of the course when I sit out a rotation. Appealing to my sense of honor. This trick works. I'm back in, pulling almost even with these two.
The lap cards come out, three to go. I hazard a quick check back to find a lot of open road between our trio and the field. I sit out a pull.
Two laps to go. The big kid finishes a monster pull and Alex hits the front next. I wave the big kid to go in front of me. Frankly I'm a little gassed but also wanted to conserve a little; if they can't dispatch me before the end, If I'm a little fresh, I stand a fair chance of taking these two in the sprint and I think they know it.
The big kid sits up, putting me in a spot. I've got to either pull him back up to Alex or sit up myself, risking our position off the front, hoping the kid will do the pulling. I wasn't excited about the latter, so I hit the gas and bridged back up to Alex.
Final lap: Of course, right as I make contact with Alex the kid then attacks. Hard. Harder than I can respond to. I'm done. Though I'm flattered that they felt they feared me enough to beat up on me.
Meanwhile, 20 seconds behind me and the Echelon boys, Mike Charleton was not content to just languish in the field hoping for a 4th place finish (these races only pay 3-deep), he decides to kill himself on the front of the remnants of the peloton, just for the workout. He does so, pulling his group up the road to the cat and mouse games I'm forced to play with the Echelon boys. Ever the opportunist, big Sterling smelled the blood in the water and drilled it right after, dropping Mike and maybe a couple other guys immediately.
With just 3/4 laps remaining in the race, The big Echelon kid (man, I really otta know his name by now, he's so damned strong!) is off the front solo and going to win. Alex and I are blown but it looked like we were going to fight it out for 2nd, and the field well behind. But a check under the shoulder revealed an absolutely flying group behind me coming up at blue-shifted warp speed. Aw crap we're caught.
All my fast twitch fibers had caught the last bus out of town a couple laps ago and I attempted to sprint in with the group and managed fifth in what remained of the field to get 6th overall, right behind Dr. Todd and the Kelly pro. But as the saying goes, that and $4.75 will get you a venti hazelnut soy chai latte.
But the argy bargy of racing, the calculating out your opponents' weaknesses, timing your opportunities and taking the chance when it intuitively feels right, having the opportunity to play games at the front of the race, this is the stuff that keeps my hand still in the game. God help me I love it so.
I congratulated Alex on his riding. He returned the sentiment. I said "hey not bad for a 48 year old, huh?" He said "Not bad for anyone!" The grudging respect of my peers is prize enough. Well that, and the bottle of chianti that I won midrace, it was excellent, I shared it with my poker friends later that night.
21 June 2011
Elite Race
If Machiavelli was around today and not involved in political consulting (and didn't mind shaving his legs from time to time), he would most certainly be a bicycle racer -- a sport where treachery is often, but not always, rewarded.
(again please forgive the lengthiness. I'm stuck on an airplane presently and have no real incentive for brevity)
We had a good, but smaller group take the start Tuesday night, including pro Sterling (Pistachio), a Kelly Benefits pro, a Bissell pro, a trio of Echelon riders, Dr Todd (Team NorCal), a couple strong kids from some team in a grey and red kit, four Red Peloton riders, an Organic Athlete, the usual Boba suspects and a smattering of others racing under a golden and delightfully lingering summer's sun.
I started the race agressive yet wary; noting that Dr. Todd rides for the attack, and anticipating some fireworks from the professionals among us. And the Kelly Benefits pro did not dissapoint! He leapt out early and often, both as a soloist and with other riders. He rode with aggression and abandon and I could only marvel at his ability to quickly recover and go again. Had I been on his program I would have detonated completely by the second or third lap. One dangerous move had this guy join forces with Dr. Todd and a rocketing Sterling (with new matching lime green shoes -- only Sterling can pull off such sartorial excess), and the three put their heads down and took off. Fortunately their raid was regarded quickly by all who could lend a hand in the chase and were remanded back to the vigilant peloton in rather short order.
I've been getting more comfortable wrestling this torturous course with my supa-deep pimped-out tubular wheels. The trick is to forget about it. So midrace I pounded the bottom of the course (the speedbump, metal coverings, hairpin turn and lumpy road junction) and got away by the fairground's mexican village with 400 meters to the line to grab a prime but noticed ace sprinter Mike Charleton (Red Peloton) right on my wheel. If I kept up my effort to the line a guy with his speed would cruise comfortably past me for the prize, leaving me with an armload of nothing, so I immediately swung wide and sat up, forcing him to sprint the whole way on his own, which he did without hesitation. Mike also picked up another prime earlier. He's riding really well.
Sterling then stabs hard, putting us all into difficulty but not getting the kill he wanted. He did succeed however in detaching a good handful of riders, and for the next several laps we would be rolling past all these shelled guys. Immediately came the riposte from that big Echelon kid (what, 19 yrs old?) as he jumps hard, going clear when we're all gasping from Sterling's earlier move. Dr. Todd, Mike Charleton, Alex Brookhouse and I get clear a few moments later in pursuit of the big kid.
Treachery! Alex won't work as his teammate is up the road. So Dr. Todd, Mike and I are killing it, working together well to both consolidate a bit of a gap and try and get up to that big kid, who is doing an amazing job of holding us off. At this point he has five seconds on us, and we have seven seconds on what is left of the regrouping field.
After a couple laps of this, Sterling, the Kelly Benefits pro and a couple other guys slowly make it up to us.
Big kid is still off, we're all tired from our break, and the riders who caught us are gassed from their effort. Like the bridge in a pop song, this part of the race is the fulcrum where the whole thing hinges and can spin off in any direciton. As a cyclist you want to be able to do two things -- identify this point in the race, and be in the position to do something about it.
Well Alex Brookhouse had it wired. We had been giving him an armchair ride for a few laps as we toiled to catch his teammate up the road, and when we were caught instead, Alex, relatively freshest among those of us at the sharp end of the race, attacks emphatically, just burying it. Fortunately I was in a position where I could respond, though not nearly as crisply. I found myself chasing Alex by two seconds and not making any headway on him but the two of us were catching the big kid rather quickly.
Alex catches the big kid and their moment's hesitation allows me to do the same, letting me be the third, and outnumbered, member of this leading trio. Behind us, there is not much fight left in the peloton and we earn an immediate gap.
The always fashionable Frank Ammirata working the S/F rings the bell for another prime. I'm reasonably sure our break has a fighting chance, so was not planning on stabbing my breakmates in the back with an attack to win the prime. That plus if I was a keg, say, I would be getting pretty flat.
We cyclists remember not only our adversaries' strengths and weaknesses, but also our actions, our deeds and misdeeds, our slights and our favors. Alex remembers me busting up a break we were in a month or so ago for a prime. The big kid remembers me beating him for a different prime. And I need no memory at all to realize that hanging out off the front with these two is keeping me at my physical limit.
The three of us, with a couple shouted and grunted words decide not to contest the prime and as I happened to be pulling through across the line was declared the prime winner. But we were all focused on staying away.
When you are in a break with two riders of the same team, it's understood that the two riders will probably do to three things: 1. work a little harder than you will, as collectively they have a better shot at success than you, 2. complain bitterly that you are not working as hard as they, and 3. As you approach finish, work you over so they are assured the victory by one rider or the other.
"Come on, Pepper! We need you!" Brookhouse shouts at the top of the course when I sit out a rotation. Appealing to my sense of honor. This trick works. I'm back in, pulling almost even with these two.
The lap cards come out, three to go. I hazard a quick check back to find a lot of open road between our trio and the field. I sit out a pull.
Two laps to go. The big kid finishes a monster pull and Alex hits the front next. I wave the big kid to go in front of me. Frankly I'm a little gassed but also wanted to conserve a little; if they can't dispatch me before the end, If I'm a little fresh, I stand a fair chance of taking these two in the sprint and I think they know it.
The big kid sits up, putting me in a spot. I've got to either pull him back up to Alex or sit up myself, risking our position off the front, hoping the kid will do the pulling. I wasn't excited about the latter, so I hit the gas and bridged back up to Alex.
Final lap: Of course, right as I make contact with Alex the kid then attacks. Hard. Harder than I can respond to. I'm done. Though I'm flattered that they felt they feared me enough to beat up on me.
Meanwhile, 20 seconds behind me and the Echelon boys, Mike Charleton was not content to just languish in the field hoping for a 4th place finish (these races only pay 3-deep), he decides to kill himself on the front of the remnants of the peloton, just for the workout. He does so, pulling his group up the road to the cat and mouse games I'm forced to play with the Echelon boys. Ever the opportunist, big Sterling smelled the blood in the water and drilled it right after, dropping Mike and maybe a couple other guys immediately.
With just 3/4 laps remaining in the race, The big Echelon kid (man, I really otta know his name by now, he's so damned strong!) is off the front solo and going to win. Alex and I are blown but it looked like we were going to fight it out for 2nd, and the field well behind. But a check under the shoulder revealed an absolutely flying group behind me coming up at blue-shifted warp speed. Aw crap we're caught.
All my fast twitch fibers had caught the last bus out of town a couple laps ago and I attempted to sprint in with the group and managed fifth in what remained of the field to get 6th overall, right behind Dr. Todd and the Kelly pro. But as the saying goes, that and $4.75 will get you a venti hazelnut soy chai latte.
But the argy bargy of racing, the calculating out your opponents' weaknesses, timing your opportunities and taking the chance when it intuitively feels right, having the opportunity to play games at the front of the race, this is the stuff that keeps my hand still in the game. God help me I love it so.
I congratulated Alex on his riding. He returned the sentiment. I said "hey not bad for a 48 year old, huh?" He said "Not bad for anyone!" The grudging respect of my peers is prize enough. Well that, and the bottle of chianti that I won midrace, it was excellent, I shared it with my poker friends later that night.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Benicia Criteriums
Benicia Criteriums
12 June 2011
Masters 45+ 1-2-3 and Masters 35+ 1-2-3 races
Though Ian at West County did a fine job of replacing my bottom bracket bearings, saving me enough wattage to surely keep a few tortillas warm, and for once my cleats were all tightened nicely. But the party at my house the night before might not have been the best preparation come the morning. And who knew that the West County Rev cyclists would fall far short of the task of finishing off a small keg? I've got to remember that unlike in my 20s, multiple beers in an attempt to drain the keg the night prior can no longer be construed as carbo loading. There may have been a few conversations that I don't fully remember, so apologies if I behaved poorly. Or more poorly than usual.
So it took few ibuprofens, some strong espresso and the excellent solo at the end of Bowie's "Moonage Daydream" to finally get all the cobwebs out of the skull that were going to come out.
Benicia is a small and pretty town on the east bay. And the course was a excellent one, rolling as it did through the downtown corridor, up through a tidy neighborhood and then plunging down a crappy and rutted road lined by 60's era apartment blocks. Eight turns per lap, a couple of them challenging enough to bring out an ambulance before the day was out.
The summer sun was making an excellent showing finally and a steady breeze was blowing when our 40-strong group of old guys took to the course. Once again the large teams present (Safeway, San Jose, Morgan Stanley) were calling the shots. Before the race even began I made it a point to mark favorites Chris Wire (SJ) and Bettonte (Safeway), that if any break with those two were going up the road that I would have to be in it.
Early on the great hulking mass of Bettonte did get himself off the front and was sustaining an attack for a lap, then two, his lead growing to about 15 seconds, frankly an unlikely move from a guy with such a bankable sprint. I was being attentive at the front, and maybe too attentive as I was pulling the race along after Bettonte when Wire rockets past me, up the road to catch him. Unable to make the bridge nearly as crisply as Wire, I could only watch as events were unspooling, my personal doomsday prophecy revealing itself before my eyes. there go the two biggest threats in the race and me unable to make it up to them. How did this happen again?
Wire meets up with Bettonte and the two take off. Faithful San Jose and Safeway riders predictably massed to the front to attempt to gum up any significant chase.
Fortunately however, a ragtag alliance of Morgan Stanley and several other strong riders heard the alarm and kept the dangerous pair in sight, and then slowly brought them back to the fold, the incessant bay wind sapping duo's energies.
Safeway immediately responds in kind with an attack of a solo rider who kept it out there for several laps. Finally when he got to within about eight seconds I managed to jump across to him, thinking, hoping that the field might lose interest and we could slip back away. But no such luck as we were caught right at four laps to go.
It looked as though this race would come down to a sprint. So the remainder of my race was spent trying to recover while not losing too many places. Follow Wire. Follow Bettonte, I kept telling myself. Not so easily done as these two great bike handlers were slipping up to the front. Each of them with their separate retinues of riders wanting give their boys an armchair ride to the last turn.
Down the last treacherous corner I got a little scrappy and took some risks, passing guys on the outside as the road makes a fair hump right at the apex of the turn. Being on the outside kept me awfully close to the curb but out of the crosswind, and I was able to pick my way over the crumbly road and past a few more riders. Bettonte had marshalled his guys well at this point, with 500 meters and two turns remaining, but they were on the other side of the road. The second to last turn I kept wide and went around some slower traffic with the hopes of finding the Safeway train. Uphill and one turn to go. The sprint is engaged, and I'm fairly well positioned. Only problems are the effort to get here has pretty much gassed me. That plus I really don't have much of a sprint. On the uphill run in to the line I let my momentum carry me to pass one or two guys, but there are still more in front and one is coming up on my right.
This guy on my right and I are absolutely tied, both thrashing our way to the finish line, which seems to take forever to get to us. I turn it up to eleven. So does he. I've got a couple inches on him, then it looks like he's taken his foot off the gas. Exhausted myself, with 50 meters I ease off a little. Then he punches it again and gets me right on the line, by maybe 5cm! That crafty bastard.
It turns out this guy is Mark Caldwell, a Morgan Stanley rider who I used to race with back in 1984, when we both rode for Ten Speed Drive and both made it to the Olympic Trials. Turns out he was racing the 55+ category, which was picked separately. No other 55+ riders in front of him, he won his race. As for me, five other riders finished ahead. So 6th place as it turns out wins a little cash, some Guayaki Yerba Mate. Also won a couple beers at a local brewpub. Just what I need, more beer! Not!
Masters 35+ 1-2-3
I was pretty blasted from the last race, but with just one hour separating me from my next race, recovery was needed. So I made it to the little girl selling lemonade on the backside of the course, buying up a bottle's worth. I asked, and she said she'd cheer for me. Then on the other side of the course hit the Cytomax tent for a fillup. I talked them into cheering for me here too. I in turn promised to yell out "Cytomax" when I would come by every lap. I figured with no family, friends or teammates at the race, any encouragement would be helpful.
And it turns out the help was needed. The 35+ field was stacked with great riders. State champions, pro riders, those kind of guys. And I was still knackered from the previous race. No amount of Yerba Mate was going to help.
I switched out wheels for this one, taking off the deep dish Stinger 9s in favor of the more traditional Ardennes. The Ardennes aren't very aero but they afford extreme cornering precision. With them you can split a pair of Botts Dots reliably, in an off-camber turn, at speed, in a crosswind. With the stingers, it's more like putting in a general request to your front wheel to change direction.
And sure enough, at the call up, and as if on queue, the wind started blowing harder.
Every lap the Cytomax boys would shout "Rick!" and I would shout "Cytomax" (when I could) in response. After a while it seemed like the whole street had joined in. Too bad they weren't cheering for someone who had a chance in the race!
The race for me was SufferFest2011. I spent my time scrambling for the wheel of the biggest, smoothest riders in the peloton, trying to find the eddy currents to hide out of the wind. Once or twice a dalliance off the front, but my legs were complaining bitterly. I looked down after a particularly difficult surge in the field to see my max HR of 178 showing on my snool-encrusted bike computer. My average HR for the whole race was 93% of max HR. Ow.
The field fractured under the pressure of a spirited chase of a break that was caught in the finishing straight. I finished with the remainder of the lead group in something like 12th place I think, with former Republic of Anaerobia teammate Mike Charleton having a brilliant and gutsy ride to finish 4th.
So if you want a $10 gift card to a swanky brewpub in Benicia, Let me know. Happy to send it to you.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Mt Hamilton Road Race: SlimFast is Back on the Menu
29 May 2011
Mt. Hamilton RR
Masters 45+, 1-2-3
Mt. Hamilton Road Race is another monument of bicycle racing in Northern California, the race having been held for several decades running. All categories are obliged to ride the same point to point parcours, beginning just outside of San Jose and ending just outside of Livermore, by way of 4196 ft. high Mt Hamilton, home of Lick observatory and the tallest point in the bay area. The main obstacle comes right at the start, a solid 20 miles of climbing straight away. From there a scintillating descent and then several smaller climbs before the the final 20 miles of undulating and serpentine downhill drag to the finish. Over 6000' of total climbing. A climber's race for sure.
Arriving a little later than I wanted I had to make a choice: either wait 15 minutes in line to use the Jr. High restroom or spend that time actually warming up. Actually there really was no choice in the matter. I needed that bathroom. Note to self: Get thee to the race with enough time to do everything.
Looking at the number of starters on the line that the race might not be that competitive. only about 23 riders managed to show up. But look again: All of them on the line, on a breezy and cold morning, waiting to take the start, looking like a pack of shivering, hungry whippets. All the skinny VO2 Max guys were there. Probably collectively there was a tablespoon of fat among them. I was feeling a bit apprehensive. Note to self: Stop eating entirely to prepare for these kinds of races.
After only one mile or so, some emaciated waif jacked up the pace to near right my limit. We were lined out on the road, 6-8% grades, fighting for wheels. Guys were already delaminating off the back of the already-small field. Great. Only 19 more miles of climbing. We eased. Then someone else hit the gas. This happened over and over. More guys coming off. I heard a grunting and puffing and chuffing behind me as I endured yet one more body blow well above my AT. Another acceleration shook me loose from the now ~12-rider strong field. The chuffing sound from behind was big Larry Nolan as he holds to the field while I'm cut loose. Note to self: Should have chosen parents with higher lactate thresholds.
So now I'm climbing tempo as what remains of the field is curve by curve gaining time on me. One rider, all in black, dropped earlier, catches me and says let's work together, pushing me. Okay, okay but quit pushing me! I'm already feeling like I'm in the Jenny Craig waiting room. Let's limit our losses and hope that the field rests a little, maybe we can get back.
We're caught by a couple other riders and as a foursome are trying to get a rhythm going. Coming up from behind us is the beefy Dirk Himley, with his noisy bike protesting it's load with each turn of the pedals. His coming up dropped the other guys. So Dirk, myself and Pushy McBlacky (he had an irish accent) are still in pursuit. A bit more work and we've caught Nolan, dumped unceremoniously from the group in front.
Somewhere in here my back starts aching pretty good. I guess 15 miles of near-solid climbing will start to expose one's limitations. Note to self: Give building the rock wall a rest the day before the epic road race, huh?
Our quartet is unstable though, Dirk's power is waxing while mine is waning. I blow out the back of this group toward the top. Himley, Nolan and McBlacky press on, hoping to bomb the descent and make contact. I wish I could join you fellas, but I have a date with my back at Il Pain Grotto.
The top of Mt Hamilton was so cold! I was looking for snow but didn't find any. the officials and timers at the top looked like survivors from the Shackleton expedition.
At the bottom of the descent my former chase-mates were long gone and with no one behind me it looked like a 38 mile solo ride in a cold headwind to look forward to. All With a bum back.
Just then a Montgomery Security bloke comes past on one of the long risers. He gets about 25 meters ahead of me and, at the top of the climb looks back to judge the gap, and then just takes off. Didn't want to ride with me. Giving me up for dead. You bastard.
Another few miles and Alex Osborne, a great NorCal rider from the 80s, come up with one other rider. He seems to think the field must be right around the corner, just up the road. I know otherwise, but if he's got a head full of ambition, who am I to tell him otherwise?
I fall in with this duo and we are riding steady hard into the headwind, me grateful for the company and the shelter. Alex and the other guy are working pretty hard with me trying to pull through if only for the sake of decency.
As the miles tick by, we do some ups and downs, we pass a lot of riders, none from our category though. Then something good finally turns: I'm starting to feel good. My pulls at the front are fresh and strong. I can pull hard for a minute at a time. I can get my nose in the wind and crush it, recover on the wheels, then do it again. Even though I'm a pathetic, dropped old man, it's almost enjoyable out here, in the cold and in the wind.
Only five miles to go: We're rolling like bandits now. The road is falling away beneath our wheels, a slow serpentine descent without centerline (and a motorcycle rally coming from the opposite direction, to spice things up a bit). Up ahead now is the Montgomery Security rider, the one who left me for dead. I make sure to absolutely kill it as our train blasts by him. That'll show you to leave me, you bastard! Note to self: Petty rivalries can keep your head in the game.
It's only another couple miles until we see McBlacky, pedaling in squares. The twin oxen of Himley and Nolan must have finally been too much. Again with the freight train. That'll show you for your condescending pushing me on the climb!
I'm feeling so good now I lead out the uphill, headwind sprint and win the sprint ... for something like 15th. A pretty weak result I know but an outstanding workout still. The race was won by the skeleton of John Cavanaugh, who was a pro for Plymouth Reebok and who I raced against some in the '80s. The KOM was won by a POW-esque Cale Reeder, the current Masters National Champion. I should hope to see these riders soon under different circumstances. Until then I'm going to eat something so I can feel better about myself.
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