Masters Road Race: Farewell, my Love

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