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.