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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

Tuesday Night Twilights #6: Ah, Youth

24 May 2011

Tuesday Night Criterium #6

Elite Race

Ah, Youth

Cooler temps prevailed on Tuesday as a great competitive group descended on the Fairgrounds to contest this twilight criterium. Notables on the start were a bunch of young elite kids, nervous and twitchy while Frank Ammirata made his abbreviated announcements: Two Firefighter's cycling U-23 espoirs (Goessling and one other kid), Livestrong's Ryan Eastman, and a Cal Giant rider showed up to join our competitive crew of Red Pelotonistas, Pistacchio, Boba and Echelon riders.

Once again (and I'm starting to expect this now) the pace exploded from the start, with the kids just killing it for the first couple laps. Like it was some kind of Olympic Sprint. I was afraid to look behind for fear of being the last guy as the pace was super high. 

Finally a lull in the baggare by the cycling youth brigade and immediately Sterling hits the gas at the front to try to snap the rubber band which is what is left of the peloton. At this point I think each of us remaining were busy dialing the combinations of our hurt lockers.

I think bicycle racing is a unique sport as so many things have to work pretty well all at the same time to get a good result: Tactics, mechanics, preparation, psychology. A little luck. Personally for me it seems like as soon as I have one thing nailed down some other floorboard warps up to screw things up. This is why I employ the "three excuses deep" philosophy. It's a great insulator against poor performance. Here, follow along with me, it's easy:

1. Overcaffeinated! I had just repaired my misbehaving espresso machine the night before. So of course Tuesday then would be a day dedicated to espresso-celebration, of course! A couple double cappuccini in the morning. Then right before leaving, ah why not have one more. A fourth doppio in the afternoon pretty much sealed my doom. I was a twitching, nervous human spasm throughout the race. Only today am I getting back to my "normal" level of nervousness.

2. Mechanical Idiocy! Although I'm pretty proud that I didn't screw up la macchina the night before, I did install some new Time cleats on Monday and forgot to grease the threads and torque on them really really well. As such the cleats held nicely during easy commuting, but come race night both sides loosened up nicely and whenever I needed to really punch it first the right shoe then both shoes slipped forward then backward under load. Now I'm not in software marketing and as such can't turn this bug into a feature. It honestly really screwed up my whole race.

3. Who needs a third excuse when your first two excuses are so damned solid?

Sometime in the center of the race I did find myself off the front with a firefighter and big John of Echelon fame and the break felt pretty good, but only a lap of freedom was allowed us on the windy course. We came back quickly.

Late in the race I think the Cal Giant rider and the remarkably-improving Alex Brookhouse (Echelon) went on a late raid and all it took was a half-lap of the best riders looking for the others to commit to pull them back, and that was all the freedom they needed. I think Sterling won the sprint for third. I tried sprinting with my new Vario-Dynamic™ Fore-Aft Randomizing™ Cleat System® but was unable to make much of a dent in what was left of the field and placed ninth or thereabouts.

Notes: A bunch of us "noodled" over to the Riviera where racers and fans get 50% off their pasta dishes on Tuesday nights. Enough montepulciano won as primes helped lubricate the evening (Thanks, Andy!). Also a Levi and Odessa sighting in what Matt Everson calls Sonoma County's cycling batcave. The night over, I tightened down my cleats and swerved home, Wes Montgomery, Eduardo Falú and Iva Bittova led the way past feral cats and rabbits.