Shortly before starting this post I noticed that Steve Tilford had updated his blog, he began by saying, "...I hate indoor riding." Spoken like a true cyclist indeed. I guess that makes me an untrue cyclist though. I like indoor riding and I've openly admitted to that fact many times. Ok, I guess I don't like-like indoor training, I simply appreciate it for what it is. I remember my first fall to winter training transition. It was ugly. I hated climbing on the trainer during cold days, I hated not feeling the wind rush past and I pedaled, and I hated the fact that I was confined to a solitary room. However, after last year's preseason and all the extensive indoor trainer work that I performed, my feelings changed. What really put the trainer into perspective for me was my first season of racing. After last season I began to know a little more about what I was pursuing; and in that regard, I knew where indoor training fell into place. Trainer work is merely a tool in the toolbox, it's not really riding at all. Instead of thinking of it as a substitution for riding, I now classified it in a category all its own. It is trainer work, nothing else. It's kind of like the girl you grew up to next door, though the promise of something else has lingered for years, she's only going to be a friend, so you should probably stop inviting her to John Mayer concerts.
With that said, it's good to mix it up as much as possible, and yes, I'm talking about cross-training. Coming from the traditionalist camp, which I admit I fall into more out of ignorance that sheer preference, cross-training is a tricky subject. Jogging, lifting, and riding different disciplines all seem pretty viable options. Though I have experience jogging (my max run distance was 5 miles.. ha ha) and lifting (I used to weight train) both are considerably alien when put into the context of cross-training for road. The worry with lifting is that muscle will be developed where it shouldn't and I'll gain extra, unnecessary, weight. Any additional weight gain to an already 200lb frame would be bad. My upper body is a trouble area, as I used to do extensive arm and chest conditioning. Gaining more muscle there and I would probably have to abandon road for the velodrome. Obviously I would be careful about jumping in the weight room; which brings us to jogging. Out of all my options for cross-training, jogging seems the most realistic. It is financially accessible, simplistic, and efficient. I've also heard that jogging builds joint strength. After experiencing tendinitis in my left knee this off-season, my hope is that jogging would help to strengthen it up. I'm no expert however. I guess you just start running in a direction and see where that takes you. Come to think of it, I might need a jogging partner.
January is drawing closer and with target races in late May it's almost time to get intense. The early pre-season (October-December) is for endurance and base building, but late pre-season (January-February) is for speed and power gains. 1-minute and 30 second intervals, speedwork, and hill repeats are all on the dockett. I'm getting excited for the trainer sessions where I'm howling in pain and fighting to hold my lunch down. I'm looking forward to it for the challenge it will bring and the payoff come spring. The ability to attack and attack.. and attack, the ability to crush your competition both physically and mentally, in a race, is absolutely exhilirating. Waiting in the pack for 30 miles and the opportune moment to strike, when finally it arises and you launch a minute-long attack leaving the peloton in the dust. The feelings of victory both personal and in the race are incredible. For the past few months, when sitting in contemplation of what is to come, my heartbeat rises and I get that nervous handtwitch of an adrenaline rush.
In the words of the Spartan King Leonidas, "Prepare for glory!" Ten-four good buddy. I'm getting ready.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zMGJP3b4rbg
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Our old friend the interval
At the end of racing, from March to August, I was toast. Come September I hardly touched my bike, save for the once or twice-a-week easy ride, which may not have been such a bad thing. Between classes starting back up, David and I working our asses off to get the KU Club off to a good start, and a myriad of technical difficulties with my bikes, it all worked out. Now I've got two bikes, an early 80's steel frame/down tube shift Bianchi commuter and a 2008 Colavita/Sutter Home SL pro frame.. not too shabby. In the words of The Lonely Island crew, during my first ride on the SL I almost ... in my pants. The thing seemed to hum with power, simply riding it you could feel the craftsmanship that goes into a pro level frame. Coming in at a respectable 15 lbs., light, and stiff, it is a sweet ride. Married with Ritchey components and Sram gruppo it is definitely the best bike I've ever had.
If you were to ask anyone who is around me on a daily basis, they would all tell you the same thing, "his life is the KU club." It's true. I have been working with David since the beginning of the semester to literally build the club from the ground up. We've been working on a new constitution, new team logo, new sponsorship program, new officer structure, new club structure, new team structure, new event structure, new-member recruitment, a new advertising campaign.. the list goes on. In short we have taken the club from a club of 4 members with no culture or future prospects to a vibrant organization of 20 members, 6 officers, and a culture that is, simply put, "work hard, play hard, and have fun." David and I have had conversations where we tried to figure out how its all come together, having this success can only be the product of real, honest, hard work and the true intention to do something right. Better things are sure to come from KU cycling in the coming seasons.
But what about our old friend the interval? He's back. Our club meets Sunday and Wednesday nights for spin session in the sport club training room at the rec facility.. and what's on the menu those nights? You guessed it, intervals. It's early in the training season, mind you, so we're not killing it.. yet. Already David has taught a killer spin session that included one leg drills and 8-minute intervals, definitely one of my sweatiest training sessions. So far I've taught three spin sessions, a 1:1 3-minute intervals session of 12 reps , a 2 hour spin, and a 12 reps 3min-3osec descending intervals session. It's pretty awesome to pass on the love of cycling in all its forms, and to see the exhausted, but happy faces of my students after each session is the best. Not a single person has come to a spin session and regretted it, most, however; have thanked me after class was over for a good butt whippin'. That's really special, working with a group of passionate individuals that are willing to do the nitty gritty and get down to business, they'll definitely reap the rewards come spring.
If you were to ask anyone who is around me on a daily basis, they would all tell you the same thing, "his life is the KU club." It's true. I have been working with David since the beginning of the semester to literally build the club from the ground up. We've been working on a new constitution, new team logo, new sponsorship program, new officer structure, new club structure, new team structure, new event structure, new-member recruitment, a new advertising campaign.. the list goes on. In short we have taken the club from a club of 4 members with no culture or future prospects to a vibrant organization of 20 members, 6 officers, and a culture that is, simply put, "work hard, play hard, and have fun." David and I have had conversations where we tried to figure out how its all come together, having this success can only be the product of real, honest, hard work and the true intention to do something right. Better things are sure to come from KU cycling in the coming seasons.
But what about our old friend the interval? He's back. Our club meets Sunday and Wednesday nights for spin session in the sport club training room at the rec facility.. and what's on the menu those nights? You guessed it, intervals. It's early in the training season, mind you, so we're not killing it.. yet. Already David has taught a killer spin session that included one leg drills and 8-minute intervals, definitely one of my sweatiest training sessions. So far I've taught three spin sessions, a 1:1 3-minute intervals session of 12 reps , a 2 hour spin, and a 12 reps 3min-3osec descending intervals session. It's pretty awesome to pass on the love of cycling in all its forms, and to see the exhausted, but happy faces of my students after each session is the best. Not a single person has come to a spin session and regretted it, most, however; have thanked me after class was over for a good butt whippin'. That's really special, working with a group of passionate individuals that are willing to do the nitty gritty and get down to business, they'll definitely reap the rewards come spring.
Last Wednesday's spin class in the middle of descending intervals, they were feeling it.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The off season's over
This last season has been a very fruitful one for me. Collegiate North-Central B-cat road/crit champ, Kansas cat-3 road champ runner-up, second in the Missouri State cat-3 road champs, a top five finish in the cat-4 Joe Martin Stage Race, and a host of cat-5, 4, and 3 wins and podium finishes; all in my first season of racing. I know that I have been very fortunate to be a part of the KU Cycling and Team Colavita/Parisi Coffee teams. I have raced next to some of the best examples of class-act and character, in that of my teammates. I owe much of my success to them, and the support they've given me.
Ultimately, as every racer knows, their fate is in their own hands. The lonely miles put in on the road alone, the grueling hours spent during interval sessions, all the things that must be done when no one is watching. They're thankless, so why do we do it? Because they are the prerequisites to greatness come spring. It is truly the things you do when no one is watching that make a champion.
The off season's over.
Ultimately, as every racer knows, their fate is in their own hands. The lonely miles put in on the road alone, the grueling hours spent during interval sessions, all the things that must be done when no one is watching. They're thankless, so why do we do it? Because they are the prerequisites to greatness come spring. It is truly the things you do when no one is watching that make a champion.
The off season's over.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Bike Snob NYC Unmasked!
Our very own Steve V. is the one and only renowned cycling blogger Bikesnob NYC. From the beginning of Steve's postings on his TC/PC blog I noticed that his style of prose was impeccably close to that of BSNYC. Putting the baby to rest, I have amassed irrefutable proof of Steve's alter ego.
First is Steve's post from yesterday, notice his wording when describing America's healtcare system. He uses the uncommon adjective "labyrenthine."
Second is a post from Bikesnob NYC's blog last February. I used to frequent Snob's blog and find the fact that both Snob and Steve have a penchant for using "labyrinthine" a bit too ironic. Coupled with their incredibly sardonic style, the similarities between both bloggers is too great to be a coincidence. In summation: Steve V. = BSNYC.
I know. Shocking.
First is Steve's post from yesterday, notice his wording when describing America's healtcare system. He uses the uncommon adjective "labyrenthine."
Second is a post from Bikesnob NYC's blog last February. I used to frequent Snob's blog and find the fact that both Snob and Steve have a penchant for using "labyrinthine" a bit too ironic. Coupled with their incredibly sardonic style, the similarities between both bloggers is too great to be a coincidence. In summation: Steve V. = BSNYC.
I know. Shocking.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Tour of KC 2009
Friday June 26th:
This would be my first race back after a two week rest period. I had one thing going through my mind prior to the race, "guns up let's do this." During and after a rest period the mind and body are not quite in sync. The mind is earger, the mind is willing, but the body doesn't begin to approach the mind's level of intensity. All good training books describe levels of fitness as a line graph that increases, peaks, declines, troughs, rises again, and proceeds to a higher peak. The hardest thing of coming off of a peak fitness period is the memory of the peak itself. Your mind thinks that the body still has the razor edge it used to, it most definitely does not.
For the Longview Criterium Britton and I were careful to line up at the front of our field. From the gun the pace jacked up and the field turned into a paceline. Feeling mid-pack to be inadequate, I gunned my engines and raced to the front before turn one. Taking delight in my rested legs I led the group for a lap and a half at blazing speed. Near the halfway point of lap two the paceline behind me came around my left side and ramped up the pace. I struggled to match pace with the lead group and quickly drifted to the back. After a couple of laps of trying to hang on, and failing to recover from my previous effort, I fell off. Dropping back to a quarter of a lap behind the lead group, I began to recover and initiated a TT effort, I watched the field inch away from there. Deciding that justice for my stupidity would have to be self-administered, I stayed in the race for the remainder going as hard as I could. At the end I was busted up, ego bruised more than body.
Saturday June 27th:
It was business as usual. David and I got up around 10am and began planning our day pre-race. We decided on seeing the new Transformers movie and getting lunch asap. Massages sounded good too, so we were keeping that option on the back burner. As we were getting ready around 11am my stomach began to distend and I experienced sharp intestinal pains. It was kind of a joke at first, me explaining that I got gas pains from time to time, but that it would go away soon. 4 hours later it hadn't. Having downed the maximum limit of gas-x pills for a day, hours earlier, and failing to find any reprieve, we began to worry. Thoughts of appendicitis and ruptured spleens abounded. Thinking over the situation mom decided it best to drive me to the hospital. Two hours after that and having cpr done on my stomach I began to feel better.
Day recap:
1. didn't make it to lunch or a movie
2. experienced vomit inducing pain for 6 hours
3. nearly passed out at the hospital
4. was diagnosed with probable intestinal chloronic (necessitating surgery in serious circumstances)
5. watched Marley and Me with my mom and her husband Jim while recovering
6. missed the day's criterium
Summation: wtf, son-of-a-bitch
Sunday June 28th:
Yesterday was supposed to be redemption day, but considering the circumstances, today would have to do. Looking at my race record I realized that my last commendable criterium result was nigh on months ago, today I aimed to change that. Pedalling around pre-race with Britton, the legs felt decent. Taking Friday as a lesson I knew that my endurance was not what it once had been, hopefully my top end wasn't so diminished. Today's strategy would be to race with my head, since my legs weren't so willing. Waiting at the start line mom and Jim were there to cheer me on. Today would be the same as Friday, with my biggest supporter in attendance I wanted to pull out a great result. On top of that a dear friend of mine, Kristi Dillman and her boyfriend TK were coming to watch as well. Unexpectantly TK had brought his camcorder and had it trained on me each lap. The pressure was on, four people were watching that I wanted to impress and one had a machine capable of capturing undeniable evidence of my impending success or failure. Guns up let's do this.
Like most crits the pace was heavy. There were definitely some dudes racing that wanted to keep things moving. Knowing that my form wasn't good enough to contend with too many moves at the front I kept my position near middle of the pack. A few breaks went early in the race, but were always brought back. Near mid-race the group split and a lead six or so got off the front. Finding myself near the front of the chase and knowing that the break looked pretty strong, I moved to lead chase position and worked to reel them back in. In about half a lap I pulled the group back to the break and resumed my mid-pack sit in. At about this time Britton came up beside me and said, "be patient, everyone's getting tired." I believed him, and was thankful for the words of encouragement. As the laps wound down, they seemed longer than 1/2 a mile, I kept a watchful eye on the front, sizing up the competition and readying myself to spring if need be. Coming into the last lap, predictably, people started going nuts,both behind the barriers and in the peloton. For a reason unknown to me still, a racer to my right began merging onto my line. Riding in the gutter I had nowhere to go, but down on the concrete if he was going to continue. Putting my elbow out I fended him off as he tried to force me off the road. After a few moments of contact he twisted his handlebar and went down. Wtf. If you can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen I guess. From the crash I gunned it into turn one taking lead position, up the hill I rounded turn two with a rider in tow. He shouted, "let's go!" I looked back and saw a chasing paceline. I felt pretty cooked as he launched an attack around my right. He gapped me a bit before turn 3 and I used all my speed through the last two turns to make up ground. Coming up the finishing hill I laid down a good sprint, nearly closing the gap, but it wasn't enough for first. I'd take 2nd on TK's camera.
This would be my first race back after a two week rest period. I had one thing going through my mind prior to the race, "guns up let's do this." During and after a rest period the mind and body are not quite in sync. The mind is earger, the mind is willing, but the body doesn't begin to approach the mind's level of intensity. All good training books describe levels of fitness as a line graph that increases, peaks, declines, troughs, rises again, and proceeds to a higher peak. The hardest thing of coming off of a peak fitness period is the memory of the peak itself. Your mind thinks that the body still has the razor edge it used to, it most definitely does not.
For the Longview Criterium Britton and I were careful to line up at the front of our field. From the gun the pace jacked up and the field turned into a paceline. Feeling mid-pack to be inadequate, I gunned my engines and raced to the front before turn one. Taking delight in my rested legs I led the group for a lap and a half at blazing speed. Near the halfway point of lap two the paceline behind me came around my left side and ramped up the pace. I struggled to match pace with the lead group and quickly drifted to the back. After a couple of laps of trying to hang on, and failing to recover from my previous effort, I fell off. Dropping back to a quarter of a lap behind the lead group, I began to recover and initiated a TT effort, I watched the field inch away from there. Deciding that justice for my stupidity would have to be self-administered, I stayed in the race for the remainder going as hard as I could. At the end I was busted up, ego bruised more than body.
Saturday June 27th:
It was business as usual. David and I got up around 10am and began planning our day pre-race. We decided on seeing the new Transformers movie and getting lunch asap. Massages sounded good too, so we were keeping that option on the back burner. As we were getting ready around 11am my stomach began to distend and I experienced sharp intestinal pains. It was kind of a joke at first, me explaining that I got gas pains from time to time, but that it would go away soon. 4 hours later it hadn't. Having downed the maximum limit of gas-x pills for a day, hours earlier, and failing to find any reprieve, we began to worry. Thoughts of appendicitis and ruptured spleens abounded. Thinking over the situation mom decided it best to drive me to the hospital. Two hours after that and having cpr done on my stomach I began to feel better.
Day recap:
1. didn't make it to lunch or a movie
2. experienced vomit inducing pain for 6 hours
3. nearly passed out at the hospital
4. was diagnosed with probable intestinal chloronic (necessitating surgery in serious circumstances)
5. watched Marley and Me with my mom and her husband Jim while recovering
6. missed the day's criterium
Summation: wtf, son-of-a-bitch
Sunday June 28th:
Yesterday was supposed to be redemption day, but considering the circumstances, today would have to do. Looking at my race record I realized that my last commendable criterium result was nigh on months ago, today I aimed to change that. Pedalling around pre-race with Britton, the legs felt decent. Taking Friday as a lesson I knew that my endurance was not what it once had been, hopefully my top end wasn't so diminished. Today's strategy would be to race with my head, since my legs weren't so willing. Waiting at the start line mom and Jim were there to cheer me on. Today would be the same as Friday, with my biggest supporter in attendance I wanted to pull out a great result. On top of that a dear friend of mine, Kristi Dillman and her boyfriend TK were coming to watch as well. Unexpectantly TK had brought his camcorder and had it trained on me each lap. The pressure was on, four people were watching that I wanted to impress and one had a machine capable of capturing undeniable evidence of my impending success or failure. Guns up let's do this.
Like most crits the pace was heavy. There were definitely some dudes racing that wanted to keep things moving. Knowing that my form wasn't good enough to contend with too many moves at the front I kept my position near middle of the pack. A few breaks went early in the race, but were always brought back. Near mid-race the group split and a lead six or so got off the front. Finding myself near the front of the chase and knowing that the break looked pretty strong, I moved to lead chase position and worked to reel them back in. In about half a lap I pulled the group back to the break and resumed my mid-pack sit in. At about this time Britton came up beside me and said, "be patient, everyone's getting tired." I believed him, and was thankful for the words of encouragement. As the laps wound down, they seemed longer than 1/2 a mile, I kept a watchful eye on the front, sizing up the competition and readying myself to spring if need be. Coming into the last lap, predictably, people started going nuts,both behind the barriers and in the peloton. For a reason unknown to me still, a racer to my right began merging onto my line. Riding in the gutter I had nowhere to go, but down on the concrete if he was going to continue. Putting my elbow out I fended him off as he tried to force me off the road. After a few moments of contact he twisted his handlebar and went down. Wtf. If you can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen I guess. From the crash I gunned it into turn one taking lead position, up the hill I rounded turn two with a rider in tow. He shouted, "let's go!" I looked back and saw a chasing paceline. I felt pretty cooked as he launched an attack around my right. He gapped me a bit before turn 3 and I used all my speed through the last two turns to make up ground. Coming up the finishing hill I laid down a good sprint, nearly closing the gap, but it wasn't enough for first. I'd take 2nd on TK's camera.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Le Tour de Sainte Genevieve
Another one's in the books. Saint Genevieve was host to the Missouri state road championships today. The location was great, a charming little Missouri town, and the course was a blast. Each 33 mile lap was constituted by the perfect mix of rollers, flats, and climbs; really something for everyone.
The 3's race stated by rolling out neutral for the first few miles. Jumping on highway M we were allowed to race. There's pretty much two things you can bank on in a road race; if the distance is short enough the pace will be screaming from the gun, but if the distance is approaching 70 miles the pack is pretty content to putz along at 18mph. I'd prefer screaming, with a slow pace mobility in the pack is laborious indeed and wrecks are not uncommon. In the first 30 miles I heard at least two pileups behind me. Trapped on the shoulder I worked my way over to the yellow-line to find that there was nowhere to go from there either. The whole thing kind of reminded me of Office Space, as soon as I moved to the other side of the peloton the spot I previously occupied suddenly began gaining forward mobility. If I moved back, you guessed it, the other side would begin advancing spots on the front. In the heat of the moment it was quite frustrating, but in hindsight the whole thing is absolutely comical. I heard from Eric and David that there was a guy experiencing the same thing in the 4's race and he actually started yelling, "oh god, I'm boxed in. Great, great, I'm boxed in!!" Hilarious.
Once we started crossing some of the serious climbs the pack began to get itself moving. I made a ton of spots up on the first climb and positioned myself near the front. Still the peloton was a bit lazy and I found myself feathering the brakes a bit too much. Passing over a rolling section the peloton got a bit stretched and I took my opportunity on the left side to move to the front. The lead riders were in a single-file paceline on the right side, I came up to where the paceline ballooned out to three riders wide. Dropping quickly into the drops I stood on the pedals in a sprint, to my right a rider looked at me and yelled a warning. The moment seemed to last impossibly long, standing on the pedals and the tires' reaction to my effort. Once the moment was over I was off the front in a mid 30mph hour sprint slamming the pedals.
That's the key to an attack, you've got to kill it, and then you've got to keep killing it. Too many racers launch 10-20 meters off the front and look back, expecting the field to be a mile away. They try to shortcut the pain, but it's going to hurt, no doubt about it. Approaching the feed zone I tried to hold 29-30mph in a TT position to further my gap. I zipped through with an extra bottle in my back pocket, no time to stop. After a bit I looked back to see a lone bridger coming up behind. It turned out it was Matt Briar from Big Shark, I knew this kid could haul. Before I was a racer I saw him tearing the legs off of riders in the 4/5 Gateway Cup crits, I thought for sure he'd be pro by now. Together we traded pulls and linked up with the two racers up the road. From there the rest is pain and suffering, the way a good breakaway should be.
For close to 40 miles the four of us: Matt, Hub Bike Co., a racer in yellow, and I worked together until the K.O.M. hill. The racer for Hub Bicycle Co. definitely was the climber of the bunch and from the looks of it Matt definitely was not. This came as a relief because the kid could haul a massive TT and his sprint had to be something to reckon with. The rider in yellow was becoming less of a threat, and even after bumming some water off of the Hub rider, he was still fading. Cresting the K.O.M. climb Briar was way off the back and Hub was up the road. I focused on using every bit of my momentum on the downhills and transfering that into a quick power sprint on the uphills to gain on the yellow rider. After I linked up to him I pulled both of us up to the Hub rider. Thinking it wise to keep Briar dropped I moved to the front a gave a big pull, but after my turn was up yellow and Hub showed they were beat by squeaking out a a few weenie pulls. Briar killed himself to catch up and we resigned ourselves to ride as a bunch to the finish.
Somewhere around the K.O.M. hill I started to realized that my shifting was a bit off, gears were starting to miss. To tell the truth I was half expecting this. I had only ridden my new gruppo a handful of times leading up to this weekend and the cables were bound to stretch. Coming up the hill to the finish my shifting was automatic. I frantically shifted up and down my cassette and between small and big rings to find a gear ratio that wouldn't shift on its own. Each pedal stroke was interrupted by a "KACHUNK!" as the derailleur popped from cog to cog. The only thing that came into my head was "FUCK IT!" and I slammed the pedals down, still puncutated by kanchunks. I half-hobble/attacked past Briar and the yellow rider, but too late and in poor shape to catch Hub's long gone attack. 2nd place. Whatever.
It was great to see David sprint for second in the 4's race and then claim the Missouri state road title. I've been training and racing with David since February, after moving to Lawrence. When I joined Colavita/Parisi I pretty much demanded that he leave his current team. I knew David was going to be something special when riding with him in Lawrence. Despite a packed engineering schedule, where he would scrape for training hours, he was still putting up some stellar results at collegiate C races. His potential is really shining with Colavita/Parisi and this weekend was definitley proof of that. Our team is truly something special, it has a heart and a soul. We're all good friends and we support one another on and off the bike. After a long weekend (longer because of traveling than racing) who did we meet walking near Volker? Steve V., toting a six pack of brewskis! From our van we all hollered at him and the first thing he did was share his beer with us, no questions asked. After that we headed down to Minsky's and spent the rest of the night laughing and eating pizza. I've said it before and I'll say it again, that's what makes racing worth it, sharing the victory with your buds. I wouldn't want to do it alone.
The 3's race stated by rolling out neutral for the first few miles. Jumping on highway M we were allowed to race. There's pretty much two things you can bank on in a road race; if the distance is short enough the pace will be screaming from the gun, but if the distance is approaching 70 miles the pack is pretty content to putz along at 18mph. I'd prefer screaming, with a slow pace mobility in the pack is laborious indeed and wrecks are not uncommon. In the first 30 miles I heard at least two pileups behind me. Trapped on the shoulder I worked my way over to the yellow-line to find that there was nowhere to go from there either. The whole thing kind of reminded me of Office Space, as soon as I moved to the other side of the peloton the spot I previously occupied suddenly began gaining forward mobility. If I moved back, you guessed it, the other side would begin advancing spots on the front. In the heat of the moment it was quite frustrating, but in hindsight the whole thing is absolutely comical. I heard from Eric and David that there was a guy experiencing the same thing in the 4's race and he actually started yelling, "oh god, I'm boxed in. Great, great, I'm boxed in!!" Hilarious.
Once we started crossing some of the serious climbs the pack began to get itself moving. I made a ton of spots up on the first climb and positioned myself near the front. Still the peloton was a bit lazy and I found myself feathering the brakes a bit too much. Passing over a rolling section the peloton got a bit stretched and I took my opportunity on the left side to move to the front. The lead riders were in a single-file paceline on the right side, I came up to where the paceline ballooned out to three riders wide. Dropping quickly into the drops I stood on the pedals in a sprint, to my right a rider looked at me and yelled a warning. The moment seemed to last impossibly long, standing on the pedals and the tires' reaction to my effort. Once the moment was over I was off the front in a mid 30mph hour sprint slamming the pedals.
That's the key to an attack, you've got to kill it, and then you've got to keep killing it. Too many racers launch 10-20 meters off the front and look back, expecting the field to be a mile away. They try to shortcut the pain, but it's going to hurt, no doubt about it. Approaching the feed zone I tried to hold 29-30mph in a TT position to further my gap. I zipped through with an extra bottle in my back pocket, no time to stop. After a bit I looked back to see a lone bridger coming up behind. It turned out it was Matt Briar from Big Shark, I knew this kid could haul. Before I was a racer I saw him tearing the legs off of riders in the 4/5 Gateway Cup crits, I thought for sure he'd be pro by now. Together we traded pulls and linked up with the two racers up the road. From there the rest is pain and suffering, the way a good breakaway should be.
For close to 40 miles the four of us: Matt, Hub Bike Co., a racer in yellow, and I worked together until the K.O.M. hill. The racer for Hub Bicycle Co. definitely was the climber of the bunch and from the looks of it Matt definitely was not. This came as a relief because the kid could haul a massive TT and his sprint had to be something to reckon with. The rider in yellow was becoming less of a threat, and even after bumming some water off of the Hub rider, he was still fading. Cresting the K.O.M. climb Briar was way off the back and Hub was up the road. I focused on using every bit of my momentum on the downhills and transfering that into a quick power sprint on the uphills to gain on the yellow rider. After I linked up to him I pulled both of us up to the Hub rider. Thinking it wise to keep Briar dropped I moved to the front a gave a big pull, but after my turn was up yellow and Hub showed they were beat by squeaking out a a few weenie pulls. Briar killed himself to catch up and we resigned ourselves to ride as a bunch to the finish.
Somewhere around the K.O.M. hill I started to realized that my shifting was a bit off, gears were starting to miss. To tell the truth I was half expecting this. I had only ridden my new gruppo a handful of times leading up to this weekend and the cables were bound to stretch. Coming up the hill to the finish my shifting was automatic. I frantically shifted up and down my cassette and between small and big rings to find a gear ratio that wouldn't shift on its own. Each pedal stroke was interrupted by a "KACHUNK!" as the derailleur popped from cog to cog. The only thing that came into my head was "FUCK IT!" and I slammed the pedals down, still puncutated by kanchunks. I half-hobble/attacked past Briar and the yellow rider, but too late and in poor shape to catch Hub's long gone attack. 2nd place. Whatever.
It was great to see David sprint for second in the 4's race and then claim the Missouri state road title. I've been training and racing with David since February, after moving to Lawrence. When I joined Colavita/Parisi I pretty much demanded that he leave his current team. I knew David was going to be something special when riding with him in Lawrence. Despite a packed engineering schedule, where he would scrape for training hours, he was still putting up some stellar results at collegiate C races. His potential is really shining with Colavita/Parisi and this weekend was definitley proof of that. Our team is truly something special, it has a heart and a soul. We're all good friends and we support one another on and off the bike. After a long weekend (longer because of traveling than racing) who did we meet walking near Volker? Steve V., toting a six pack of brewskis! From our van we all hollered at him and the first thing he did was share his beer with us, no questions asked. After that we headed down to Minsky's and spent the rest of the night laughing and eating pizza. I've said it before and I'll say it again, that's what makes racing worth it, sharing the victory with your buds. I wouldn't want to do it alone.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Sweat. Blood. Tears.
In that order. That's the way it should be. Work your ass off, get knocked on your ass, lose your best-friend.
I started my [cycling] sporting career on a Trek mountain bike equipped with bull horns and a flipped upside down 30 degree stem. It was the most badass mountain rig I'd ever seen. At road group rides I'd kick it with the old guns and try not to get dropped. That bike kicked my butt in a good way, I trained on it for 3 months. Avoiding pain was never the goal. I enjoyed riding bikes, I always have; but when I saw what some guys were doing on the road I wanted a piece of that action. From the sidewalk at races I would see badass looking racers, who seemed to ooze confidence and prowess on the bike, tearing around criterium courses. The goal was always how to get from "intramural-softball-jersey-wearing-puke-who-didn't-even-own-a-pair-of-clipless-pedals" to that image of a road racer. I didn't have the slightest clue what I was doing on the bike. Most training sessions involved riding as hard and as far as I could (sometimes riding out of town and finding that I could barely make it back). On a more than a few occassions my breakfast, lunch, or dinner would litter the roadside.
It was love at first sight over and over again, building my Kona. The frame and fork, lifting it out of the box the first time, I marveled at its feather-weight. For weeks that f&f sat alone in my room waiting its wheels, gruppo, and components. I would come home and sit, staring at it, day-dreaming of when I would race on a real road bike. After months it came together, piece by piece. The chain was the last part to be assembled. Leaving my girlfriend behind I rode into the night, not caring about anything but the bliss I experienced riding my Kona for the first time. She was the product of months of dreaming, searching, and waiting. Unwilling to wait for every last bit of equipment I rode her without clipless shoes (to match her clipless pedals) and a lockring. Riding on rough surfaces my 12 tooth cog would jingle, as it bounced loosely on the cassette. Sooner or later it all came together and we were inseperable.
How many hours did I spend in her saddle? Hundreds. How many miles did we share on the road? Thousands. We came to know each other as I came to understand what made my life worth living, the joy that I felt in the pavement beneath her. Sometimes I hated the pain we suffered together, but when the day was done I always felt victorious. I didn't always know where we were going, rather only that we were going somewhere. The victory was about pushing my limit, about going to the edge and stepping off. Truly, I'd fall, but at the bottom I'd pick myself up, climb the cliff, and step off again. I got pretty good at it, taking the abuse; after a while it didn't hurt so bad. Then I'd find a bigger cliff, climb it, and repeat. That's how you sweat.
Most racers know what it is to bleed, on the inside or out. The former always accompanies the latter when the latter is experienced. On the surface, the casual spectator fails to see the riveting nature of cycling's mental game, but it's there. At a certain point in every racer's career it comes to the forefront of their racing, and is pivotal. There is a point where the mind can bring ruin to every second of training and bring vanity to every ounce of energy given to the pedals. You can bleed without falling.
How do you stop the bleeding? Keep riding your bike. Put yourself in a situation where you will bleed, forget your fear, and come out on the other side; unscathed or not.
I started my [cycling] sporting career on a Trek mountain bike equipped with bull horns and a flipped upside down 30 degree stem. It was the most badass mountain rig I'd ever seen. At road group rides I'd kick it with the old guns and try not to get dropped. That bike kicked my butt in a good way, I trained on it for 3 months. Avoiding pain was never the goal. I enjoyed riding bikes, I always have; but when I saw what some guys were doing on the road I wanted a piece of that action. From the sidewalk at races I would see badass looking racers, who seemed to ooze confidence and prowess on the bike, tearing around criterium courses. The goal was always how to get from "intramural-softball-jersey-wearing-puke-who-didn't-even-own-a-pair-of-clipless-pedals" to that image of a road racer. I didn't have the slightest clue what I was doing on the bike. Most training sessions involved riding as hard and as far as I could (sometimes riding out of town and finding that I could barely make it back). On a more than a few occassions my breakfast, lunch, or dinner would litter the roadside.
It was love at first sight over and over again, building my Kona. The frame and fork, lifting it out of the box the first time, I marveled at its feather-weight. For weeks that f&f sat alone in my room waiting its wheels, gruppo, and components. I would come home and sit, staring at it, day-dreaming of when I would race on a real road bike. After months it came together, piece by piece. The chain was the last part to be assembled. Leaving my girlfriend behind I rode into the night, not caring about anything but the bliss I experienced riding my Kona for the first time. She was the product of months of dreaming, searching, and waiting. Unwilling to wait for every last bit of equipment I rode her without clipless shoes (to match her clipless pedals) and a lockring. Riding on rough surfaces my 12 tooth cog would jingle, as it bounced loosely on the cassette. Sooner or later it all came together and we were inseperable.
How many hours did I spend in her saddle? Hundreds. How many miles did we share on the road? Thousands. We came to know each other as I came to understand what made my life worth living, the joy that I felt in the pavement beneath her. Sometimes I hated the pain we suffered together, but when the day was done I always felt victorious. I didn't always know where we were going, rather only that we were going somewhere. The victory was about pushing my limit, about going to the edge and stepping off. Truly, I'd fall, but at the bottom I'd pick myself up, climb the cliff, and step off again. I got pretty good at it, taking the abuse; after a while it didn't hurt so bad. Then I'd find a bigger cliff, climb it, and repeat. That's how you sweat.
Most racers know what it is to bleed, on the inside or out. The former always accompanies the latter when the latter is experienced. On the surface, the casual spectator fails to see the riveting nature of cycling's mental game, but it's there. At a certain point in every racer's career it comes to the forefront of their racing, and is pivotal. There is a point where the mind can bring ruin to every second of training and bring vanity to every ounce of energy given to the pedals. You can bleed without falling.
How do you stop the bleeding? Keep riding your bike. Put yourself in a situation where you will bleed, forget your fear, and come out on the other side; unscathed or not.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
A message to the thieves
The Kona is gone. I wonder if I'll ever see it again. Talking to Britton about upgrading my race rig, he suggested that I sell what I currently had. His logic being that it's better to get what you can out of something before it gets stolen. I laughed when he said this, my bike would never be stolen; plus my Kona would have an honored spot in the pub, when it opens. Waking up for work Monday morning I found that the bike that I have endured thousands of miles of training hours on, the bike that I have ridden to victory and defeat, the only object in my life that I could liken to a friend was gone. Her dissappearance was unreal, sometimes I still have a hard time believing it. Poof. Gone. I was in shock while I searched for her, on my drive to Beckett, but when I uttered one sentence to my mom at 6:30am, "Mom, someone stole my bike," I broke down. I cried like a child. A no-holds-barred, flat-out sob. The police man said that things like this happen all the time in Olathe. Inner city kids will drive down pick locks and break into cars parked in drive-ways. They only took my Kona, nothing else. They missed the wallet, the spare checks, 200+ dollar helmet, you name it. They managed to take the most priceless and most cherished of my possessions. They tore my heart out yesterday.
Let me say something to the thieves; that bike will never bring you the joy it brought me. You could ride it for a lifetime and never share the bond we forged before I was known in the cycling community. You'll never know the victory we shared overcoming each obstacle; riding 40, 50, and then a 60 mile personal best, in the fall. Experiencing withdrawal I would climb onto her saddle during sub-freezing days to steal as much of a ride as I could before tempting frostbite. Month after month she has never been far, always within eyesight; even at night when I sleep, except this once. Congratulations, you robbed me of my best friend, and for what? A couple hundred bucks maybe, at a pawn? You stole her because you don't have the kind of love that I have for cycling, in your life. Stealing mine will never change that. Burn in hell.
Let me say something to the thieves; that bike will never bring you the joy it brought me. You could ride it for a lifetime and never share the bond we forged before I was known in the cycling community. You'll never know the victory we shared overcoming each obstacle; riding 40, 50, and then a 60 mile personal best, in the fall. Experiencing withdrawal I would climb onto her saddle during sub-freezing days to steal as much of a ride as I could before tempting frostbite. Month after month she has never been far, always within eyesight; even at night when I sleep, except this once. Congratulations, you robbed me of my best friend, and for what? A couple hundred bucks maybe, at a pawn? You stole her because you don't have the kind of love that I have for cycling, in your life. Stealing mine will never change that. Burn in hell.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Wrecked..
For me Tulsa Tough sucked. Before the weekend even started I had already put in over 40 hours at my summer job, starting work each day at either 4:30am or 7am in the morning. Getting off work each day I would feel mentally exhausted, more ready to crack open a cold one rather than get on the bike. The week's training did me good though. Each day it would clear my mind and rejuvenate my body. Though training was beneficial, the combination of it and work were stressing my rest periods to dangerously low levels. Each day I felt a little weaker, but I didn't want to give up a minute on the bike. By Friday I had pushed myself as far as I could go, both working and training to the limit.
Taking Friday off and using it as a travel day to head down to Oklahoma with Steve and Britton, I felt surprisingly good on Saturday. Physically that is. Mentally and emotionally I was a bit used up, and it cost me to be sure. Saturday's crit suited me well. After taking some easy turns the course headed up a moderately long and steep hill turning left and descending before turning to a long finishing strait. Taking an opportunity to talk to Steve about the day's crit, prior to my race, I ended up getting to the line a bit late. Just like Iowa I was back of the pack at the start, and so was Britton to boot. Regardless I set off at a good tempo looking to make up spots quickly. The front is where I like to be.
Using the first lap to feel out the group I felt unexpectantly comfortable. Coming around for the second lap, of our 60 minute crit, I knew it was time to make a move. Taking the outside of a corner I attacked up the side of the group advancing almost to the front. Realizing that I was already dehydrating I took out my bottle and drank. It was a bit risky, considering the short strait afforded me before the turn to the downhill, but I did it anyway. The risk paid in shit spades. Though I drank quickly we were moving fast enough to put me off my line coming into the turn. Correcting myself I attempted to rejoin the group into the turn, but decided to pedal as well in order to maintain speed. Somehow my pedal struck. The whole thing happened incredibly quick. As I sat in the road, my rear wheel resting in front of me, the tube blew in my face, a final fuck you added to the massive road rash injuries I sustained up my left side, two torn gloves, and a ripped pair of new bib shorts. All because I got sloppy.
After limping off the course I set my bike on the side of a nearby building and sat behind a parked car. Where the road-rash had claimed my skin what laid underneath was white. So much adrenaline had, and was still, pumping through my veins that I couldn't feel the slightest ounce of pain. After a few minutes I picked up my bike, slung it over my shoulder cyclo-cross style, and walked towards the medical tent. As I walked I could hear the announcer calling a $100 prime lap.. son of a bitch.
Saturday's crit was my race and I had let it slip away. Readying myself for Sunday I felt less convicted than I should have been when looking for redemption. I had heard that the course was hilly. Riding the last section of the back stretch to get to the finish I wasn't impressed with what I thought was "the hill." Until the first lap of I had no idea what kind of challenges that the course actually posed. To add to the mess there was a bit of a mixup and Sunday's 11:30am start time was mistaken for previous day's 3pm start. By a chance conversation Britton learned that we had to race in less than 30 minutes. Shit. Steve missed his start by a long shot, we were still eating breakfast when the cat 4's headed out.
In less than 20 minutes Britton and I were dressed and had a few miles under our belts for a warmup. I joked that I was so not ready that I was ready. Britton laughed a "yeah right." Between Britton and I, I arrived at the line first, and in typical fashion was at the back of the pack. At the gun the group exploded and I met the real climb of the day for the first time. The 10% grade wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't for the number of racers who would almost come a complete halt on the incline. Losing almost all of my momentum behind those riders made that hill hell. Following the party on the hill a second incline led to the steep descent and the 120 degree turn to the finish. Each time I took the turn at the bottom of the hill I felt like my wheels were going to slide out. One time I actually managed to hit a rock and sketched my wheel. After 5 or 6 laps of this shit I decided to call it quits. I sat up and let myself slide off the back of the group. Britton looked back at me puzzeled, I waved my hand across my neck signifying my intentions. It would be my 4th DNF in a row. First a technical, then 2 crashes, and one pull-out. I watched Britton sprint to a 6th place finish. He killed it.
Instead of leaving things up to interpretation I'll just come out and say it, there is a lesson here. Before I've talked about facets of the sport, and without blatantly stating that this whole experience is one, I've explained the episode of its experience. Massively oversimplifying the sport of cycling I'll endeavor to say that there are two things any cyclist must learn to do in order to have enduring success; that is to learn how to win and to learn how to lose. In my opninion learning to lose is the more difficult of the two. If losing is accepted in full, a racer runs the risk of relegating himself to failure more and more easily. Furthermore, losing also compromises future successes by demoralizing with doubt. Therefore it is avoided at all costs, but is inevitable on a long enough timeline. Thusly, if it will undoubtedly occur, then it must be accounted for unless it derails a racer. For an intensely competitive person who has become accustomed to winning and fears failure the culmination of defeats is devastating. It derailed me. The simple understanding that I could not win all the time and that periods of low time are opportunities to grow brought me a great sense of ease. These past weeks, consisting of a massive victory followed by cascading defeat, have granted me wisdom as a racer and made me better for it. To dwell on the subject or to become embittered about the cost of my education I would run the risk of missing the point altogether.
Taking Friday off and using it as a travel day to head down to Oklahoma with Steve and Britton, I felt surprisingly good on Saturday. Physically that is. Mentally and emotionally I was a bit used up, and it cost me to be sure. Saturday's crit suited me well. After taking some easy turns the course headed up a moderately long and steep hill turning left and descending before turning to a long finishing strait. Taking an opportunity to talk to Steve about the day's crit, prior to my race, I ended up getting to the line a bit late. Just like Iowa I was back of the pack at the start, and so was Britton to boot. Regardless I set off at a good tempo looking to make up spots quickly. The front is where I like to be.
Using the first lap to feel out the group I felt unexpectantly comfortable. Coming around for the second lap, of our 60 minute crit, I knew it was time to make a move. Taking the outside of a corner I attacked up the side of the group advancing almost to the front. Realizing that I was already dehydrating I took out my bottle and drank. It was a bit risky, considering the short strait afforded me before the turn to the downhill, but I did it anyway. The risk paid in shit spades. Though I drank quickly we were moving fast enough to put me off my line coming into the turn. Correcting myself I attempted to rejoin the group into the turn, but decided to pedal as well in order to maintain speed. Somehow my pedal struck. The whole thing happened incredibly quick. As I sat in the road, my rear wheel resting in front of me, the tube blew in my face, a final fuck you added to the massive road rash injuries I sustained up my left side, two torn gloves, and a ripped pair of new bib shorts. All because I got sloppy.
After limping off the course I set my bike on the side of a nearby building and sat behind a parked car. Where the road-rash had claimed my skin what laid underneath was white. So much adrenaline had, and was still, pumping through my veins that I couldn't feel the slightest ounce of pain. After a few minutes I picked up my bike, slung it over my shoulder cyclo-cross style, and walked towards the medical tent. As I walked I could hear the announcer calling a $100 prime lap.. son of a bitch.
Saturday's crit was my race and I had let it slip away. Readying myself for Sunday I felt less convicted than I should have been when looking for redemption. I had heard that the course was hilly. Riding the last section of the back stretch to get to the finish I wasn't impressed with what I thought was "the hill." Until the first lap of I had no idea what kind of challenges that the course actually posed. To add to the mess there was a bit of a mixup and Sunday's 11:30am start time was mistaken for previous day's 3pm start. By a chance conversation Britton learned that we had to race in less than 30 minutes. Shit. Steve missed his start by a long shot, we were still eating breakfast when the cat 4's headed out.
In less than 20 minutes Britton and I were dressed and had a few miles under our belts for a warmup. I joked that I was so not ready that I was ready. Britton laughed a "yeah right." Between Britton and I, I arrived at the line first, and in typical fashion was at the back of the pack. At the gun the group exploded and I met the real climb of the day for the first time. The 10% grade wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't for the number of racers who would almost come a complete halt on the incline. Losing almost all of my momentum behind those riders made that hill hell. Following the party on the hill a second incline led to the steep descent and the 120 degree turn to the finish. Each time I took the turn at the bottom of the hill I felt like my wheels were going to slide out. One time I actually managed to hit a rock and sketched my wheel. After 5 or 6 laps of this shit I decided to call it quits. I sat up and let myself slide off the back of the group. Britton looked back at me puzzeled, I waved my hand across my neck signifying my intentions. It would be my 4th DNF in a row. First a technical, then 2 crashes, and one pull-out. I watched Britton sprint to a 6th place finish. He killed it.
Instead of leaving things up to interpretation I'll just come out and say it, there is a lesson here. Before I've talked about facets of the sport, and without blatantly stating that this whole experience is one, I've explained the episode of its experience. Massively oversimplifying the sport of cycling I'll endeavor to say that there are two things any cyclist must learn to do in order to have enduring success; that is to learn how to win and to learn how to lose. In my opninion learning to lose is the more difficult of the two. If losing is accepted in full, a racer runs the risk of relegating himself to failure more and more easily. Furthermore, losing also compromises future successes by demoralizing with doubt. Therefore it is avoided at all costs, but is inevitable on a long enough timeline. Thusly, if it will undoubtedly occur, then it must be accounted for unless it derails a racer. For an intensely competitive person who has become accustomed to winning and fears failure the culmination of defeats is devastating. It derailed me. The simple understanding that I could not win all the time and that periods of low time are opportunities to grow brought me a great sense of ease. These past weeks, consisting of a massive victory followed by cascading defeat, have granted me wisdom as a racer and made me better for it. To dwell on the subject or to become embittered about the cost of my education I would run the risk of missing the point altogether.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Ruminations on the past weekend..
One phrase sums up the past weekend in Iowa, "hot and heavy." All three races, though vastly different in their many aspects, were as balls-to-the-wall as they could get. A 27-28mph average in Friday's road race, the killer climb of Snake Alley and it's accompanying monster descent, and Sunday's puke-your-guts-out-omg-wtf-this-shit-is-crazy-fast crit made the weekend epic.
I went into the weekend with a chip on my shoulder, ready to either kick ass or chew bubble gum.. and I was fresh out of bubble gum. Lining up at the start, at the back of 70+ fields, on the surface sucks. They do; however, give you killer motivation and tunnel vision on your goal. Not spending the whole race protecting your 10th position "baby" takes complacency and kicks it in the butt. From the line your mind's racing and your head's on fire. That's the way I'd like to be, a blazing comet.
The weekend started well enough with the win on Friday. To be honest the sweetest part was sharing it with my team. Seeing DanO take off the front selflessly leading me out and sitting down to dinner that night sharing their company, it gave the victory a soul. I'd never want to do this sport alone. From there on out, it was an effort to cement what I had started. Snake Alley sat on the radar as the most visible challenge. The cornered descent was already freaking me out, more so than than Snake Alley itself. Rain moved in and wetted the course for the 4's only to dry out in a few laps, but when it came down the our 3pm start-time, the rain started and didn't stop. The alley got wet, wild, and not so wonderful. Racers' wheels skidded out, sometimes resulting in a fall. Most advice pointed to sitting the saddle, in order to keep rear wheel traction, but due to my weight I could get away with standing. My tire did slide out, but after attempting the hill briefly in the saddle I quickly moved to a standing-only approach. Not using my 60 something starting position as a crutch I gunned the hill and slammed the descent in order to make up roughly 40 odd positions, to hover in 21st place. Each lap the Alley got harder and harder, after nine laps I was really feeling it. At the peak I sought to shift from small ring to big to start the descent. Being pretty cashed I got sloppy and didn't realize that I was still in my large cog. Big mistake. My chain is too short to fit the big ring/big cog combo. Unclipping my right foot I started the descent by frantically kicking my chain, trying to get it back into the small ring. It was no good. I DNF'd shortly thereafter with a technical. I was so mad I couldn't look anyone in the face.
Sunday was redemption day. I liked the course. The hill was moderately steep and quite long. I felt strong in my practice climbs and began feeling confident for the win. What I didn't factor into the equation was the other 70+ riders that would take the field with me. They were some of the craziest mother f***ers I've ever seen. For 18 laps fearless contenders launched attacks on both the downhill and uphill. The first left after the start/finish was also a hotbed of activity. Racers would fly up next to you leading into the turn and squeak between you and the curb. Only one option presented itself on Sunday, fight fire with fire. Sitting in the top 10% I kept the pace high, hung wheels, and took flyers. The whole thing was going to hell in a hand basket, but in a good way. I wanted to call home to mom and go hide, that's how I knew things were looking good. By the last lap things got epic. The familiar sense of the impending finish washed over me, as we entered lap 18. On the downhill I took off the front pushed well over 40mph. Making short work of the uphill my tank was empty. I recover quickly and decided to regroup, letting a few racers pass me. Big mistake. At least one rider went down shortly thereafter and took me with him, taking my current 5th place position, my chance at victory, and the whole race in general to hell. That's how it goes sometimes though. Instead of standing on the podium basking in glory and banking home another $250, I'm licking my wounds and dishing out another $105 for kit. I wouldn't have it any other way.
I went into the weekend with a chip on my shoulder, ready to either kick ass or chew bubble gum.. and I was fresh out of bubble gum. Lining up at the start, at the back of 70+ fields, on the surface sucks. They do; however, give you killer motivation and tunnel vision on your goal. Not spending the whole race protecting your 10th position "baby" takes complacency and kicks it in the butt. From the line your mind's racing and your head's on fire. That's the way I'd like to be, a blazing comet.
The weekend started well enough with the win on Friday. To be honest the sweetest part was sharing it with my team. Seeing DanO take off the front selflessly leading me out and sitting down to dinner that night sharing their company, it gave the victory a soul. I'd never want to do this sport alone. From there on out, it was an effort to cement what I had started. Snake Alley sat on the radar as the most visible challenge. The cornered descent was already freaking me out, more so than than Snake Alley itself. Rain moved in and wetted the course for the 4's only to dry out in a few laps, but when it came down the our 3pm start-time, the rain started and didn't stop. The alley got wet, wild, and not so wonderful. Racers' wheels skidded out, sometimes resulting in a fall. Most advice pointed to sitting the saddle, in order to keep rear wheel traction, but due to my weight I could get away with standing. My tire did slide out, but after attempting the hill briefly in the saddle I quickly moved to a standing-only approach. Not using my 60 something starting position as a crutch I gunned the hill and slammed the descent in order to make up roughly 40 odd positions, to hover in 21st place. Each lap the Alley got harder and harder, after nine laps I was really feeling it. At the peak I sought to shift from small ring to big to start the descent. Being pretty cashed I got sloppy and didn't realize that I was still in my large cog. Big mistake. My chain is too short to fit the big ring/big cog combo. Unclipping my right foot I started the descent by frantically kicking my chain, trying to get it back into the small ring. It was no good. I DNF'd shortly thereafter with a technical. I was so mad I couldn't look anyone in the face.
Sunday was redemption day. I liked the course. The hill was moderately steep and quite long. I felt strong in my practice climbs and began feeling confident for the win. What I didn't factor into the equation was the other 70+ riders that would take the field with me. They were some of the craziest mother f***ers I've ever seen. For 18 laps fearless contenders launched attacks on both the downhill and uphill. The first left after the start/finish was also a hotbed of activity. Racers would fly up next to you leading into the turn and squeak between you and the curb. Only one option presented itself on Sunday, fight fire with fire. Sitting in the top 10% I kept the pace high, hung wheels, and took flyers. The whole thing was going to hell in a hand basket, but in a good way. I wanted to call home to mom and go hide, that's how I knew things were looking good. By the last lap things got epic. The familiar sense of the impending finish washed over me, as we entered lap 18. On the downhill I took off the front pushed well over 40mph. Making short work of the uphill my tank was empty. I recover quickly and decided to regroup, letting a few racers pass me. Big mistake. At least one rider went down shortly thereafter and took me with him, taking my current 5th place position, my chance at victory, and the whole race in general to hell. That's how it goes sometimes though. Instead of standing on the podium basking in glory and banking home another $250, I'm licking my wounds and dishing out another $105 for kit. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Wapello-Burlington Road Race
Sitting at the start line I began thinking over how the day's race should go. I sized up the field, it was strong. I looked at my position, at the back. Lastly I took into account the course, a virtaully flat run for 33 miles. Not good prospects. I knew it would be tough to simply gain access to the front of the group, but to win it? That'd be a whole other story. After a few minutes I came to a decision, I was going to win this race.
You know it's going to be a rough race when there's a crash at mile zero during the neutral roll out. Britton and I joked before the start that the neutralized section would basely constitute an agressive jockeying for position. We were right, the peloton was antsy. With a 3/4 field close to approaching 80, everyone wanted at the front. As usual the officials informed us that the yellow-line rule was in effect, meaning our group would be crammed into a single lane of traffic. There was to be an exception however, they would be "lenient" for the roll out. As far as leniency goes, the rule was virtually waived. After watching a few racers head up the left side of the group I followed suit. Quickly advancing from next to last to mid-pack I settled in. As expected once the motorbike official came off the front and declared a go for racing, the peloton put the hammer down. We easily reached speeds of 31mph and averaged 27mph for the entire 33 miles. With the increased speed came a gradual upward mobility in the pack. Surges of momentum on either sides of the pack would give an advantage to racers in that stream for any given period of time. After a random period of time momentum would shift to another side of the bunch giving another group of racers the upper hand. Making progress to the front required a steady wheel and keen perception of the peloton's movements. It would simply not be possible to sit in one side of the peloton and expect to gain any sort of cumulative advancement.
As racers jostled for position, those disadvantaged by their movements raised voices and yelled any number of responses. Mostly it was "watch your line" or "on your right/left." Sometimes curses and arguing would pepper the pelotonian conversation. Mostly, I left the bitching and moaning to the old farts and concentrated on my objective.
It took at least half the race to move into the top 20% of the pack. Once there I had a very good view of what was going on up front. DanO made some great moves from the git-go and accompanied my ascent. Usually he was a few places ahead. I watched with nervous anticipation as he launched attacks off the front, each time sitting in and allowing myself to be pulled up to him. That's the game; your man goes off the front, you don't chase. I would expend no effort in catching him, but if the riders ahead of me pulled me up to him, so be it. As honorable as his intentions were; however, nothing was bound to stick. Attack after attack, breakaways would gain a few meters advantage before being devoured by the pursuing juggernaut. In the meantime, the game was to stay in the race with two wheels on the ground; easier said than done. To recount the number of times I had to hit the brakes, dodge an swerving rider, place my hand on an oncoming hip, and handlebar joust, is impossible. For one memorable moment though I did elbow fight with an old masters rider intent on taking my line.
In terms of course profile we were informed that there would be a couple of hills (easy rollers), 33 miles (an incredibly inaccurate sign at registration said ~40), then the road would open to two lanes, and then finally we would be granted the entire road to the finish. It was relief to find that after so many nerve racking miles we had finally come to added birth of two lanes. Ironically enough the pack did little to spread out as the lead 10 riders kicked up the pace to hover around 28mph. We knew the finish was coming soon. My goal now was the same as before; sit on a wheel near the front and save for the sprint. As the original leaders fell off from their pulls and new ones surged around the sides I jumped into a four-man line and continued on in the drops. Racers were frantically vying for lead spots now and hardly containing their urges to start a sprint on the spot. I tried to stay cool and maintain top 5. On my left DanO flew up in attack. We crested a ridge and the horizon opened up to a downhill leading into streets lined with spectators. My line jumped Dan's wheel and I follow suit. He was doing what we discussed, he was leading me out. Dan gave a tremendous pull and brought us barrelling down the descent into town. It was still at least 500m to the line, but it was my turn, I would go now. Leaping out from behind the wheel I held I opened up my sprint. Down in the drops I stood on the pedals bringing my shoulders over my handle bars. Like a gold miner sifting a sand, I rocked my handle bars back and forth to match my legs. Full out, full bore, I was in the lead, sprinting to the line. One rider came out of my draft and attempted to pass on my right. Basically he came out and met wind. Stopping dead in his tracks he got no further than his original move. We were closer, 200 meters. I could hear the crowd now, they were calling to me. The announcer excitedly chattered on the loud-speaker giving me energy. There was no feeling, only sight, only sound. When my legs gave out I was completely unexpecting. I fell from my sprint crouch to the saddle, shocked. The racer to my right had fallen back. I was still in the lead. From a seated TT position I gave what I had left and covered the final meters. To the roar of the crowd I crossed the line first.
You know it's going to be a rough race when there's a crash at mile zero during the neutral roll out. Britton and I joked before the start that the neutralized section would basely constitute an agressive jockeying for position. We were right, the peloton was antsy. With a 3/4 field close to approaching 80, everyone wanted at the front. As usual the officials informed us that the yellow-line rule was in effect, meaning our group would be crammed into a single lane of traffic. There was to be an exception however, they would be "lenient" for the roll out. As far as leniency goes, the rule was virtually waived. After watching a few racers head up the left side of the group I followed suit. Quickly advancing from next to last to mid-pack I settled in. As expected once the motorbike official came off the front and declared a go for racing, the peloton put the hammer down. We easily reached speeds of 31mph and averaged 27mph for the entire 33 miles. With the increased speed came a gradual upward mobility in the pack. Surges of momentum on either sides of the pack would give an advantage to racers in that stream for any given period of time. After a random period of time momentum would shift to another side of the bunch giving another group of racers the upper hand. Making progress to the front required a steady wheel and keen perception of the peloton's movements. It would simply not be possible to sit in one side of the peloton and expect to gain any sort of cumulative advancement.
As racers jostled for position, those disadvantaged by their movements raised voices and yelled any number of responses. Mostly it was "watch your line" or "on your right/left." Sometimes curses and arguing would pepper the pelotonian conversation. Mostly, I left the bitching and moaning to the old farts and concentrated on my objective.
It took at least half the race to move into the top 20% of the pack. Once there I had a very good view of what was going on up front. DanO made some great moves from the git-go and accompanied my ascent. Usually he was a few places ahead. I watched with nervous anticipation as he launched attacks off the front, each time sitting in and allowing myself to be pulled up to him. That's the game; your man goes off the front, you don't chase. I would expend no effort in catching him, but if the riders ahead of me pulled me up to him, so be it. As honorable as his intentions were; however, nothing was bound to stick. Attack after attack, breakaways would gain a few meters advantage before being devoured by the pursuing juggernaut. In the meantime, the game was to stay in the race with two wheels on the ground; easier said than done. To recount the number of times I had to hit the brakes, dodge an swerving rider, place my hand on an oncoming hip, and handlebar joust, is impossible. For one memorable moment though I did elbow fight with an old masters rider intent on taking my line.
In terms of course profile we were informed that there would be a couple of hills (easy rollers), 33 miles (an incredibly inaccurate sign at registration said ~40), then the road would open to two lanes, and then finally we would be granted the entire road to the finish. It was relief to find that after so many nerve racking miles we had finally come to added birth of two lanes. Ironically enough the pack did little to spread out as the lead 10 riders kicked up the pace to hover around 28mph. We knew the finish was coming soon. My goal now was the same as before; sit on a wheel near the front and save for the sprint. As the original leaders fell off from their pulls and new ones surged around the sides I jumped into a four-man line and continued on in the drops. Racers were frantically vying for lead spots now and hardly containing their urges to start a sprint on the spot. I tried to stay cool and maintain top 5. On my left DanO flew up in attack. We crested a ridge and the horizon opened up to a downhill leading into streets lined with spectators. My line jumped Dan's wheel and I follow suit. He was doing what we discussed, he was leading me out. Dan gave a tremendous pull and brought us barrelling down the descent into town. It was still at least 500m to the line, but it was my turn, I would go now. Leaping out from behind the wheel I held I opened up my sprint. Down in the drops I stood on the pedals bringing my shoulders over my handle bars. Like a gold miner sifting a sand, I rocked my handle bars back and forth to match my legs. Full out, full bore, I was in the lead, sprinting to the line. One rider came out of my draft and attempted to pass on my right. Basically he came out and met wind. Stopping dead in his tracks he got no further than his original move. We were closer, 200 meters. I could hear the crowd now, they were calling to me. The announcer excitedly chattered on the loud-speaker giving me energy. There was no feeling, only sight, only sound. When my legs gave out I was completely unexpecting. I fell from my sprint crouch to the saddle, shocked. The racer to my right had fallen back. I was still in the lead. From a seated TT position I gave what I had left and covered the final meters. To the roar of the crowd I crossed the line first.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Joe Martin Stage Race 5/9-10
Saturday May 9th, 2.5 mile uphill TT and 46 mile RR
Yesterday we carbo-loaded thanks to the pasta and chicken David cooked earlier in the day. The atmosphere was light as we ate, each of us in turn musing about today's time trial. A ball game played on the TV in the little breakfast lounge downstairs at the Super 8 Motel. As we ate Brad commented about how pro our pre-race meal was, David and I agreed with smiles and nods. I pushed my chair back and headed for seconds. Raucous laughter erupted as David and Brad turned my appetite into a joke. I laughed along too, Brad got up for seconds. That's what racing is all about, your mates.
7:45am:
Fayetteville Arkansas is beautiful country. Rolling hills eclipse the horizon and valleys provide awe inspiring views. Passing through the man-made ravines cut out of the hillsides, we entered Devil's Den State Park, the site of our morning's time trial. A sign read "eight sets of switchbacks ahead." David and I debated whether that meant 8 switchbacks or 16. My reasoning was that two switchbacks would point you back in the same direction, therefore constituting a "set." After the first one I forgot to count; they were steep, they were scary, and we were taking them fast. There could have been eight, but it sure felt like sixteen.
8:00am:
Ariving at the staging area we received our race bibles, number (two to pin on the jersey, one for the seatpost), and our TT departure time. I recieved the number 432 and was set to leave at 10:40:00. Looking at the start sheet, Brad had 10:52:30 and David was departing at 10:57:00. I would be the first. Brad joked that I should report back via team radio regarding the course and its difficulty. We laughed, we had no radio.
10:00am:
I felt like I should have been more nervous than I actually was. 44 minutes from my start time and not a single real, serious butterfly. I felt that I should be concerned for a multitude of reasons. This would be my first time-trial. I hadn't had any experience pacing myself for a given distance in a race situation prior to this. This truth played into the second factor, that of which the time trial would travel up an average grade of 6.8% and pitching up to 10%. I used to be pitiful at hills, when I first started riding. My move from Manhattan to Lawrence quickly mended any novitiate climbing failings, but even still, I am no climber. Minnesota's collegiate conference championship road race made sure to remind me of that.
10:44am:
I'm inside the starting house. I ask the official if I should clip both feet in. "Yes," he replies. I comment that I've never done this before, I hope I don't fall. "Don't worry," he says, "10 seconds." A growl spreads my face. I never do that before a race. I'm nervous. I'm off.
10:45am:
According to the course profile a flat section precedes the ascent. Leaving the starting house I averaged 30mph to reach the climb. I shift into my small ring as I hit the hill. I look at my computer, 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15mph. I hold steady at 15 and give it a kick back to 16. Prior to the TT we talked about the average pace of last year's competitors. I was told that the winning cat 4 time averaged 15mph. That's my goal, but I'm no climber. Quickly I fall into a rythm, sitting while spinning a fast cadence. I'm gaining on some riders that started before me. I pass one, and then another. A racer is in front of me now, he must be the one who started before me. He passes a rider , seconds later I pass him too. I think to myself what the riders that I'm passing think of me. My breathing is heavy, measured, and rhythmic. My breathing makes me think I'm going too hard. I don't hear the passed riders' breath. A bit of doubt. I'm gaining slightly on the racer ahead of me. A pitch to 10% and the gap between him and I grows slightly. I stand. Everything is rhythmic.
10:52am:
I still have the racer in my sights. He has gained more on me. I wonder if he's a contender for this stage. Could the riders we passed be non-threats? I pass another. That makes four. At least 2 minutes has been made up on the riders that started before me. Somehow this indication doesn't sink in. I feel like I could be doing more, but I don't want to burn out. This TT was all horror stories before the start, so I'm still expecting the worst. I hurt, my legs burn, but somehow I feel like I could be doing more.
10:54:25am:
I crossed the finish, it was a welcome sight. It came sooner than I expected. In the saddle I gave a final kick to cross the line. No indication of how I did yet and I forgot to reset my computer. I ride 500 feet down the road from the finish. My throat is sore and my left ear feels stuffed up. Good. If I feel like I'm coming down with a cold after a race I know I've pushed myself. Rolling back near the finish I sit on the side of the road waiting for Brad to come next. Four riders sit in a line to my right, all on the same team. No one says anything about my time. Figures that it wasn't any good, my expectations were pretty low coming into this TT.
11:03:41am:
Brad comes up the hill having just passed a racer. I yell to him to push it. He stands and gives it a few good kicks and coasts across the line. He looks done. With 11:11:41 Brad sits in 12th.
11:17:60am:
David is in sight now. I begin cheering him on. He digs deep and spends the rest of his energy crossing the line. 11:20:60, a good time. David is 9 seconds and nine places behind Brad. After David makes it back to the finish line we all descend the course together. It seems to take longer going down than up. Reaching the car we stop to chat with a few fellow racers. "Decent," they say about their performances. Their expectations were low. I listen jealously as Brad and David talk about their times and placings. Maybe I could go back to the start house and ask what my time was? No, they already packed up and left. We ready ourselves to make for the road race start.
12:00pm:
David decides to stay with the bikes as Brad and I go inside Wal-Mart to get food bars and gatorade. I must look like a crazy person standing in the middle of Wal-Mart shouting. In the TT I had gotten 5th place.
2:45pm:
It's unreal to be this close to the pros. We marvel as Rock Racing, Colavita, Ouch, Bissell come rolling into the parking lot. There aren't any barriers between us and them, we could walk right up to them. The pro team Rio Grande's van pulls into a stall beside David's car. Professional cyclists are literally getting ready for their race right beside us! Riding towards the staging area we pass the Colavita team car with JJ Haedo perched on his bike next to it. I think he's speaking Italian. I'm star struck. These guys are in the same parking lot as us, getting ready to ride the same course, but there's something different about them; well, besides being pro. They have a demeanor and an air that radiates their confidence. On the bike they look as comfortable as if they were sitting in a recliner. Somewhere over by the port-a-potties, Floyd Landis is taking a piss behind a van.
4:00pm:
Our start time is late by 10 minutes. The cat 4's are the last group to go. We're heading out 11.5 miles south-west of the start, taking a left turn onto a 23 mile loop, and then heading back north-east 11.5 miles to the finish. The race lady official makes some dumb jokes. A few more minutes and we're off.
4:15pm:
Finishing 5th in the TT put me in a position that I can honestly say I wasn't ready for. I didn't expect to be our team's GC contender. I looked at my prospects, I sat 37 seconds behind the race leader. From here on out the goal is to place as high in the GC as possible, but 1st would be ideal. There are a max of 25 seconds worth of time bonuses left, 15 today for the stage win and 10 tomorrow. If no breaks go and I sit easy, winning the sprint finish in both I'll still be 12 seconds off the lead; considering that he doesn't gain any bonuses. With all things considered there's really only one option in my mind, and that's to break away.
Up ahead is the first climb of the day. I'm stuck mid-pack on the right side of the road. Moving onto the sholder I cut through some gravel and make my way towards the front. As we hit the climb I advance a few more places and eventually find myself in the lead. Sticking to my previous plan (testing the pack on the first hill and later breaking away on a climb), I set a comfortable tempo and glance back near the top. There's a huge gap. Looking over my left shoulder I see the one rider who hung my pace to the top. The kid, no more than 16, was a junior racer. Considering that fact didn't make him a good prospect for being a strong-man in the break. The real tough athletes are older and lack fear. With no other option besides falling back to the pack I looked him square in the face and shouted, "kid, let's do this!" I stepped on the gas and began quickly accelerating over the crest of the climb. Taking one last glance back I saw him fading away with a terrified look on his face. He lived up to my expectations and he let his fear get the best of him.
4:19pm:
It's inside of five miles into the race and I'm alone off the front. This kind of nonsense is for Stijn Devolder, not a first year cat 4. Although I think I have a real chance of staying away, I realize it's a small one. Basically I'm banking on the pack being disorganized and unwilling to tire themselves in an early chase. Cruising down the road at 29mph all I can think is one thing, "get out of sight." When not turning into the forested curves I can see the tiny figures at the front of the peloton. I know in order to destroy any cohesion in the chase I have to make myself at least appear to be a larger challenge to catch. By staying ahead of them in the curves and behind tree cover they won't know if I'm a kilometer or 10k away. The longer I'm out of sight the worse it'll seem. I step on it.
4:32pm:
I'm falling apart. By now I've tried cramming a Larabar into my mouth and choking it down with water. Flipping my computer up and down so that I could get the most aero grip on the inside of my handlebar I accidentally pulled it out of its mount. I considered stopping and going back for it, but then I would surely be caught by the chase. In my mind I still had a chance at the break. I no longer looked back to see if the pack was closing, long ago they ceased to come into sight. Now I focused my sights on the police escort driving ahead of me, using him as somewhat of a pacecar. It wasn't working. My legs quit burning, now they only felt increasingly useless. In increments, my speed was falling, one mile-per-hour at a time.
Up ahead loomed a massive climb. A glance back. No one was behind me. By now I wasn't sure if I could stay away. Little inclines along my break did their work in wearing me down. This massive climb only served to strike a tremendous blow to my endurance. Suddenly there were people on the sides of the road up ahead. A large portion of them wore the jerseys of pro-teams. They cheered me on. A premonition and a glance back. The pack was within sight, making their way up the hill. "Goddammit!" With gritted teeth I pushed ahead. Maybe there was still a chance? A lone rider left the front of the pack, making a bridging move. I kept up the effort, each pedal stroke excruciating. Finding motivation in spotting their quarry and the threat of a rider bridging to the break the pack began a furious chase. Quickly they swallowed up the attacking rider, and momentarily they relented. For the few hundred meters they lumbered closer, as only inevitablility could. When they were within the few remaining meters I sat up and ended my break. Shit.
Yesterday we carbo-loaded thanks to the pasta and chicken David cooked earlier in the day. The atmosphere was light as we ate, each of us in turn musing about today's time trial. A ball game played on the TV in the little breakfast lounge downstairs at the Super 8 Motel. As we ate Brad commented about how pro our pre-race meal was, David and I agreed with smiles and nods. I pushed my chair back and headed for seconds. Raucous laughter erupted as David and Brad turned my appetite into a joke. I laughed along too, Brad got up for seconds. That's what racing is all about, your mates.
7:45am:
Fayetteville Arkansas is beautiful country. Rolling hills eclipse the horizon and valleys provide awe inspiring views. Passing through the man-made ravines cut out of the hillsides, we entered Devil's Den State Park, the site of our morning's time trial. A sign read "eight sets of switchbacks ahead." David and I debated whether that meant 8 switchbacks or 16. My reasoning was that two switchbacks would point you back in the same direction, therefore constituting a "set." After the first one I forgot to count; they were steep, they were scary, and we were taking them fast. There could have been eight, but it sure felt like sixteen.
8:00am:
Ariving at the staging area we received our race bibles, number (two to pin on the jersey, one for the seatpost), and our TT departure time. I recieved the number 432 and was set to leave at 10:40:00. Looking at the start sheet, Brad had 10:52:30 and David was departing at 10:57:00. I would be the first. Brad joked that I should report back via team radio regarding the course and its difficulty. We laughed, we had no radio.
10:00am:
I felt like I should have been more nervous than I actually was. 44 minutes from my start time and not a single real, serious butterfly. I felt that I should be concerned for a multitude of reasons. This would be my first time-trial. I hadn't had any experience pacing myself for a given distance in a race situation prior to this. This truth played into the second factor, that of which the time trial would travel up an average grade of 6.8% and pitching up to 10%. I used to be pitiful at hills, when I first started riding. My move from Manhattan to Lawrence quickly mended any novitiate climbing failings, but even still, I am no climber. Minnesota's collegiate conference championship road race made sure to remind me of that.
10:44am:
I'm inside the starting house. I ask the official if I should clip both feet in. "Yes," he replies. I comment that I've never done this before, I hope I don't fall. "Don't worry," he says, "10 seconds." A growl spreads my face. I never do that before a race. I'm nervous. I'm off.
10:45am:
According to the course profile a flat section precedes the ascent. Leaving the starting house I averaged 30mph to reach the climb. I shift into my small ring as I hit the hill. I look at my computer, 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15mph. I hold steady at 15 and give it a kick back to 16. Prior to the TT we talked about the average pace of last year's competitors. I was told that the winning cat 4 time averaged 15mph. That's my goal, but I'm no climber. Quickly I fall into a rythm, sitting while spinning a fast cadence. I'm gaining on some riders that started before me. I pass one, and then another. A racer is in front of me now, he must be the one who started before me. He passes a rider , seconds later I pass him too. I think to myself what the riders that I'm passing think of me. My breathing is heavy, measured, and rhythmic. My breathing makes me think I'm going too hard. I don't hear the passed riders' breath. A bit of doubt. I'm gaining slightly on the racer ahead of me. A pitch to 10% and the gap between him and I grows slightly. I stand. Everything is rhythmic.
10:52am:
I still have the racer in my sights. He has gained more on me. I wonder if he's a contender for this stage. Could the riders we passed be non-threats? I pass another. That makes four. At least 2 minutes has been made up on the riders that started before me. Somehow this indication doesn't sink in. I feel like I could be doing more, but I don't want to burn out. This TT was all horror stories before the start, so I'm still expecting the worst. I hurt, my legs burn, but somehow I feel like I could be doing more.
10:54:25am:
I crossed the finish, it was a welcome sight. It came sooner than I expected. In the saddle I gave a final kick to cross the line. No indication of how I did yet and I forgot to reset my computer. I ride 500 feet down the road from the finish. My throat is sore and my left ear feels stuffed up. Good. If I feel like I'm coming down with a cold after a race I know I've pushed myself. Rolling back near the finish I sit on the side of the road waiting for Brad to come next. Four riders sit in a line to my right, all on the same team. No one says anything about my time. Figures that it wasn't any good, my expectations were pretty low coming into this TT.
11:03:41am:
Brad comes up the hill having just passed a racer. I yell to him to push it. He stands and gives it a few good kicks and coasts across the line. He looks done. With 11:11:41 Brad sits in 12th.
11:17:60am:
David is in sight now. I begin cheering him on. He digs deep and spends the rest of his energy crossing the line. 11:20:60, a good time. David is 9 seconds and nine places behind Brad. After David makes it back to the finish line we all descend the course together. It seems to take longer going down than up. Reaching the car we stop to chat with a few fellow racers. "Decent," they say about their performances. Their expectations were low. I listen jealously as Brad and David talk about their times and placings. Maybe I could go back to the start house and ask what my time was? No, they already packed up and left. We ready ourselves to make for the road race start.
12:00pm:
David decides to stay with the bikes as Brad and I go inside Wal-Mart to get food bars and gatorade. I must look like a crazy person standing in the middle of Wal-Mart shouting. In the TT I had gotten 5th place.
2:45pm:
It's unreal to be this close to the pros. We marvel as Rock Racing, Colavita, Ouch, Bissell come rolling into the parking lot. There aren't any barriers between us and them, we could walk right up to them. The pro team Rio Grande's van pulls into a stall beside David's car. Professional cyclists are literally getting ready for their race right beside us! Riding towards the staging area we pass the Colavita team car with JJ Haedo perched on his bike next to it. I think he's speaking Italian. I'm star struck. These guys are in the same parking lot as us, getting ready to ride the same course, but there's something different about them; well, besides being pro. They have a demeanor and an air that radiates their confidence. On the bike they look as comfortable as if they were sitting in a recliner. Somewhere over by the port-a-potties, Floyd Landis is taking a piss behind a van.
4:00pm:
Our start time is late by 10 minutes. The cat 4's are the last group to go. We're heading out 11.5 miles south-west of the start, taking a left turn onto a 23 mile loop, and then heading back north-east 11.5 miles to the finish. The race lady official makes some dumb jokes. A few more minutes and we're off.
4:15pm:
Finishing 5th in the TT put me in a position that I can honestly say I wasn't ready for. I didn't expect to be our team's GC contender. I looked at my prospects, I sat 37 seconds behind the race leader. From here on out the goal is to place as high in the GC as possible, but 1st would be ideal. There are a max of 25 seconds worth of time bonuses left, 15 today for the stage win and 10 tomorrow. If no breaks go and I sit easy, winning the sprint finish in both I'll still be 12 seconds off the lead; considering that he doesn't gain any bonuses. With all things considered there's really only one option in my mind, and that's to break away.
Up ahead is the first climb of the day. I'm stuck mid-pack on the right side of the road. Moving onto the sholder I cut through some gravel and make my way towards the front. As we hit the climb I advance a few more places and eventually find myself in the lead. Sticking to my previous plan (testing the pack on the first hill and later breaking away on a climb), I set a comfortable tempo and glance back near the top. There's a huge gap. Looking over my left shoulder I see the one rider who hung my pace to the top. The kid, no more than 16, was a junior racer. Considering that fact didn't make him a good prospect for being a strong-man in the break. The real tough athletes are older and lack fear. With no other option besides falling back to the pack I looked him square in the face and shouted, "kid, let's do this!" I stepped on the gas and began quickly accelerating over the crest of the climb. Taking one last glance back I saw him fading away with a terrified look on his face. He lived up to my expectations and he let his fear get the best of him.
4:19pm:
It's inside of five miles into the race and I'm alone off the front. This kind of nonsense is for Stijn Devolder, not a first year cat 4. Although I think I have a real chance of staying away, I realize it's a small one. Basically I'm banking on the pack being disorganized and unwilling to tire themselves in an early chase. Cruising down the road at 29mph all I can think is one thing, "get out of sight." When not turning into the forested curves I can see the tiny figures at the front of the peloton. I know in order to destroy any cohesion in the chase I have to make myself at least appear to be a larger challenge to catch. By staying ahead of them in the curves and behind tree cover they won't know if I'm a kilometer or 10k away. The longer I'm out of sight the worse it'll seem. I step on it.
4:32pm:
I'm falling apart. By now I've tried cramming a Larabar into my mouth and choking it down with water. Flipping my computer up and down so that I could get the most aero grip on the inside of my handlebar I accidentally pulled it out of its mount. I considered stopping and going back for it, but then I would surely be caught by the chase. In my mind I still had a chance at the break. I no longer looked back to see if the pack was closing, long ago they ceased to come into sight. Now I focused my sights on the police escort driving ahead of me, using him as somewhat of a pacecar. It wasn't working. My legs quit burning, now they only felt increasingly useless. In increments, my speed was falling, one mile-per-hour at a time.
Up ahead loomed a massive climb. A glance back. No one was behind me. By now I wasn't sure if I could stay away. Little inclines along my break did their work in wearing me down. This massive climb only served to strike a tremendous blow to my endurance. Suddenly there were people on the sides of the road up ahead. A large portion of them wore the jerseys of pro-teams. They cheered me on. A premonition and a glance back. The pack was within sight, making their way up the hill. "Goddammit!" With gritted teeth I pushed ahead. Maybe there was still a chance? A lone rider left the front of the pack, making a bridging move. I kept up the effort, each pedal stroke excruciating. Finding motivation in spotting their quarry and the threat of a rider bridging to the break the pack began a furious chase. Quickly they swallowed up the attacking rider, and momentarily they relented. For the few hundred meters they lumbered closer, as only inevitablility could. When they were within the few remaining meters I sat up and ended my break. Shit.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
North-Central Conference Collegiate Road Championships
Minnesota attacked first. To me he was a relative unknown. I jumped his wheel, if his attack was going to stick, I wasn't going to be left out. He looked back, two seconds later, Brian Crosby made a move around my left-side, another rider for Minnesota. The first attack was a diversion. No, better yet it was a leadout. I had to bridge to Crosby, this guy was the real deal. In terms of winning, he'd won just about everything during the season so far. At the beginning of my collegiate career all I had ever heard about him was that he raced pro track in European velodromes. That made him a marked man in my mind. There was no doubt that his attack would be the one to stick. His attack was strong. One, two, three, four seconds, I had his wheel. Contact.
. . .
Before I travelled to Cannon Falls, Minnesota for conference road championships, a few things had occured to me. First, Saturday's road race would be taking place the day before Sunday's criterium. Second, the road race would be 63 miles long. Third, the last road race I rode, in the collegiate A/B category, I got dropped. Together these facts culminated into one abominable admission; I would race on Saturday, get dropped, and tire myself out for the criterium on Sunday. In my mind I had no chance in the road race and by racing it I could only hope to destroy all my chances for the criterium that I felt I could win. I had a rider's delimma. The choice was between skipping the road race and saving my chances for the criterium or keeping my sacred pride intact. I did what any self-respecting racer would do, I chose pride.
. . .
I had taken only one look back since we kicked clear of the group. The last thing I remember seeing was K-State's Mark Smelzer at the head of the group chasing. We had to press on, the die was cast, this breakaway would sink or swim based on our efforts in the coming minutes. Mathematically speaking our chances were slim. There were three of us; Crosby, the unknown Minnesota rider, and myself. Behind us were eleven of the best collegiate racers that the seven states of the North-central conference could muster. Eleven versus three, not good odds.
We were pushing 32 miles an hour during our escape. At first, I followed Crosby's attack, seeing him waning I came around his right side and set the pace. There wasn't any time for sensation, I couldn't feel a thing. Adrenaline pumped in my veins, spurring me on. The Minnesota rider came around to take a pull. Our efforts in the breakaway weren't like that of a chasing peloton. Our game was different, it was more cohesive. At that point in time we were a band of brothers. We shared the purest form of camraderie. Our endeavor would live or die based on the actions of the other two riders who shared our plight. Three men could make this break a success and one could be its demise. The one wouldn't be me.
Crosby looked back as he came off a pull. I didn't. My sights were focused straight ahead, sitting in first wheel. A quarter turn of my head as he passed me and I shouted to him, asking what he saw. "We're gaining on them," he said, "keep it up!" The improbable was becoming possible. I found myself having a hard time believing this was actually happening. My thoughts rotated to the facts. I'm in my first road season, racing with the best regional collegiate talent in a 63 mile road race, and I'm off the front with over 50 miles to go. Could we do it? Would we be the podium? Could I do it? I didn't have any answers. My current situation was outside of my scope. I had never done anything like this before. I came off my pull and the Minnesota rider took over. The road was cracked and rough. We were riding over what cobblestones must feel like. A thought burst into my conciousness, pushing all else aside. It stood centered in my mind, voiceless, formless, yet it's message was clear; "hell of the north." The thought gave me pride. This road could be a cousin to those cobblestones in the north of France and my stuggle was brother to all cyclists. Then and there, we weren't three. Spectators lined the country road, they had the smiling faces of Merckxx, LaMond, and Simpson. We weren't alone.
. . .
The paramedics told me that they had lost track of how many crashes there were that day. Rough estimates were around 15. The University of Lincoln-Nebraska race organizers must have known of the dangers that their impromptu course posed. As of yet, no other race I had attended was host to two on-duty emergency personnel. The D's race had been particularly nasty. Morning showers had soaked the small tractor test loop making its banked turns an almost necessity. More hazards had claimed their share of victims, those the likes of tire wide gaps between the slabs of concrete that make up the test course. The C's race didn't fare much better, but the course had dried out a bit. By the time of the A/B's afternoon race-start all moisture had been evaporated off the loop. Fourteen of us lined up at the start-line. The big names were all there; Smelzer from K-State and Crosby from Minnesota. I eyed them with contempt and respect, they were the kings ready to be dethroned. The whistle blew and the lap counter read 60 laps to go.
As expected Smelzer attacked, from their five man roster Iowa State rotated attacks, then Crosby unleashed his. A gap formed and I was sitting in the void. A paceline sat on my wheel expectantly waiting, it would be up to me to bridge the gap. Seconds passed and by centimeters I crept closer. Finally contact. Those on my wheel, feeling obliged to work, finally did so, launching an attack. I stood on my pedals, muscles screaming, mind screaming, teeth gritted. Like a magnent my wheel found another, the attack relented and I could rest.
In the first few laps we learned how to utilize the early banked portion of the 180 degree switchback to dive into the turn and emerge on the opposite side at speed. Once this manouver was mastered and lines of riding were established the race pace never relented. Riders pedal struck the tight turns, sketched their rear wheel on the concrete cracks, and cursing the other riders would jerk around them, but the pace never relented. In the second turn a North Dakota rider, Mario, jerked violently and for an impossibly long moment his bicycle committed mutiny. Time caught up and he fell with a malicous crack. We dodged him like a piece of roadkill on the highway, never losing speed, not looking back. Close grip, low grip on the drops, muscles screaming, and mind pleading, I raced. Hearing the sprint lap bell I knew it was my time. With half a lap to go I launched an attack blistering into turn two at incredible speed. Emerging from the other side I stood on the pedals in a sprint. 100 meters and the line. I felt him before I saw him in my peripheral, it was Crosby. He had my draft for the entire attack and now he was looking to edge me out in the sprint. His wheel crept up. I summoned all my power and slammed it down on the pedals, my bike complied with a lurch as my back wheel struggled to maintain contact with the concrete. His wheel edged back. I was giving it my all, he was giving it his all. The line, and Crosby took second. 45 more laps to go.
. . .
We had been gone for minutes now. The adrenaline high had subsided while the screaming maw of pain emerged. I prayed for endorphins. The Minnesota rider missed a pull. Was he a contender then? I would have to watch my own efforts. Our breakaway's gilding began to tarnish. An undeniable truth, I was the outsider in this break of three. Both of my companions rode for Minnesota. Undoubtedly there would come a time when they would conspire against me. I began to size up my enemies, all of which were formidable threats. First and foremost was my body, should it give out I would be cast away from the break to sink into the void. In such a scenario I could only hope to be swallowed up by the hungry chase group prowling the road behind. Then I would be one of them, frantically chasing the riders ahead. Second was the peloton itself, its whole purpose bent on the pursuit of us three. Our only hope against our chasers was that they did not possess many more weapons than we did. My Minnesota companions were my last threat. The fact that they would only remain compatriots of mine as long as I remained useful and as long as it benefitted them could not be escaped. We were well clear of the peloton, but we weren't in the clear yet. There was still much work to be done. I pushed the thoughts of betrayal into the back of my head taking them as a mental note, there would be a time to deal with them soon enough.
For twenty miles we didn't say much of anything to one another. Our whole effort was bent on gaining as much of a time gap on the peloton as possible. It wasn't until we had passed the men's category 3 riders, who started at least 5 minutes before us, that we began to talk. Crosby broke the ice by saying that we had most likely broken the spirits of the chase. For the first time in an hour I took what was closest to a sigh of relief. Our break had stuck. We were going to make it. Taking this opportunity I made sure Crosby knew that I knew who he was and introduced myself to the unknown Minnesota rider. I finally had a name to go with him, it was Brandon. We made chit chat for some miles, all the while them sizing me up and me them. We had defeated our enemy the chase group, I had conquered my body, so that left only one problem; I was the outsider. I felt comfortable with the knowledge that the break had only succeeded with my help and that there were roughly 30 miles left to race. However, Crosby and Brandon could climb the final hill leading to the finish better than me. That was my only major weakness, because I had been far excelling them on flat ground. Except for on the final hill an attack wouldn't drop me, and that's where it happened.
Crosby started opening a gap on the climb. I sat in a small gear ratio with Brandon behind me. Coming around my right he made a move to get a water bottle from a Minnesota fan at the feed station. He bridged to Crosby. I sat and made a joke up to them about wanting a fan club like theirs. I was feigning strength hoping they would overlook the growing gap between us. Brandon looked back and turned his head saying something to Crosby. They stood on their pedals and the gap grew. In response I stood, but the gap widened. I yelled ahead trying to appeal to their sense of reason. They knew they could drop me on the same hill on the last lap and take the finish, I wouldn't be challenging their win. If they dropped me now I'd have an entire 21 mile lap by myself. It would be an incredible effort to keep up my pace and not get caught by any chasers. They kept standing and by increments their lead grew.
Head down I gave my best TT effort to make chase, but the odds were against me. Two men working together almost always beats one, this time was no exception. There are a mix of emotions in a race when something simply isn't possible. A sense of calm settled over me as soon as I accepted the fact that 3rd place was going to be as good as I could finish. After that realization passed the fear of being caught by any chasers grew. Right then and there I decided the only way I could have any chance at guaranteeing myself 3rd place was to go as hard as I could for the remaining 21 miles, and I did. For 21 miles my legs burned, for 21 miles I went without food or water, and for 21 miles I kept Crosby and Brandon on the horizon. When it was all over I put my fist in the air crossing the finish line third.
Note: All other collegiate A/B races ranked both A's and B's into the same finish. Because the Minnesota races were for conference championship titles the A's had 1st, 2nd, and 3rd finishers and the B's had 1st, 2nd, and 3rd finishers regardless of the fact that A's and B's raced in the same field. By this scoring I won 1st place in the B's road race and 1st place (4th among A/B's) in the B's criterium and became the North-Central category B road and criterium conference champion.
. . .
Before I travelled to Cannon Falls, Minnesota for conference road championships, a few things had occured to me. First, Saturday's road race would be taking place the day before Sunday's criterium. Second, the road race would be 63 miles long. Third, the last road race I rode, in the collegiate A/B category, I got dropped. Together these facts culminated into one abominable admission; I would race on Saturday, get dropped, and tire myself out for the criterium on Sunday. In my mind I had no chance in the road race and by racing it I could only hope to destroy all my chances for the criterium that I felt I could win. I had a rider's delimma. The choice was between skipping the road race and saving my chances for the criterium or keeping my sacred pride intact. I did what any self-respecting racer would do, I chose pride.
. . .
I had taken only one look back since we kicked clear of the group. The last thing I remember seeing was K-State's Mark Smelzer at the head of the group chasing. We had to press on, the die was cast, this breakaway would sink or swim based on our efforts in the coming minutes. Mathematically speaking our chances were slim. There were three of us; Crosby, the unknown Minnesota rider, and myself. Behind us were eleven of the best collegiate racers that the seven states of the North-central conference could muster. Eleven versus three, not good odds.
We were pushing 32 miles an hour during our escape. At first, I followed Crosby's attack, seeing him waning I came around his right side and set the pace. There wasn't any time for sensation, I couldn't feel a thing. Adrenaline pumped in my veins, spurring me on. The Minnesota rider came around to take a pull. Our efforts in the breakaway weren't like that of a chasing peloton. Our game was different, it was more cohesive. At that point in time we were a band of brothers. We shared the purest form of camraderie. Our endeavor would live or die based on the actions of the other two riders who shared our plight. Three men could make this break a success and one could be its demise. The one wouldn't be me.
Crosby looked back as he came off a pull. I didn't. My sights were focused straight ahead, sitting in first wheel. A quarter turn of my head as he passed me and I shouted to him, asking what he saw. "We're gaining on them," he said, "keep it up!" The improbable was becoming possible. I found myself having a hard time believing this was actually happening. My thoughts rotated to the facts. I'm in my first road season, racing with the best regional collegiate talent in a 63 mile road race, and I'm off the front with over 50 miles to go. Could we do it? Would we be the podium? Could I do it? I didn't have any answers. My current situation was outside of my scope. I had never done anything like this before. I came off my pull and the Minnesota rider took over. The road was cracked and rough. We were riding over what cobblestones must feel like. A thought burst into my conciousness, pushing all else aside. It stood centered in my mind, voiceless, formless, yet it's message was clear; "hell of the north." The thought gave me pride. This road could be a cousin to those cobblestones in the north of France and my stuggle was brother to all cyclists. Then and there, we weren't three. Spectators lined the country road, they had the smiling faces of Merckxx, LaMond, and Simpson. We weren't alone.
. . .
The paramedics told me that they had lost track of how many crashes there were that day. Rough estimates were around 15. The University of Lincoln-Nebraska race organizers must have known of the dangers that their impromptu course posed. As of yet, no other race I had attended was host to two on-duty emergency personnel. The D's race had been particularly nasty. Morning showers had soaked the small tractor test loop making its banked turns an almost necessity. More hazards had claimed their share of victims, those the likes of tire wide gaps between the slabs of concrete that make up the test course. The C's race didn't fare much better, but the course had dried out a bit. By the time of the A/B's afternoon race-start all moisture had been evaporated off the loop. Fourteen of us lined up at the start-line. The big names were all there; Smelzer from K-State and Crosby from Minnesota. I eyed them with contempt and respect, they were the kings ready to be dethroned. The whistle blew and the lap counter read 60 laps to go.
As expected Smelzer attacked, from their five man roster Iowa State rotated attacks, then Crosby unleashed his. A gap formed and I was sitting in the void. A paceline sat on my wheel expectantly waiting, it would be up to me to bridge the gap. Seconds passed and by centimeters I crept closer. Finally contact. Those on my wheel, feeling obliged to work, finally did so, launching an attack. I stood on my pedals, muscles screaming, mind screaming, teeth gritted. Like a magnent my wheel found another, the attack relented and I could rest.
In the first few laps we learned how to utilize the early banked portion of the 180 degree switchback to dive into the turn and emerge on the opposite side at speed. Once this manouver was mastered and lines of riding were established the race pace never relented. Riders pedal struck the tight turns, sketched their rear wheel on the concrete cracks, and cursing the other riders would jerk around them, but the pace never relented. In the second turn a North Dakota rider, Mario, jerked violently and for an impossibly long moment his bicycle committed mutiny. Time caught up and he fell with a malicous crack. We dodged him like a piece of roadkill on the highway, never losing speed, not looking back. Close grip, low grip on the drops, muscles screaming, and mind pleading, I raced. Hearing the sprint lap bell I knew it was my time. With half a lap to go I launched an attack blistering into turn two at incredible speed. Emerging from the other side I stood on the pedals in a sprint. 100 meters and the line. I felt him before I saw him in my peripheral, it was Crosby. He had my draft for the entire attack and now he was looking to edge me out in the sprint. His wheel crept up. I summoned all my power and slammed it down on the pedals, my bike complied with a lurch as my back wheel struggled to maintain contact with the concrete. His wheel edged back. I was giving it my all, he was giving it his all. The line, and Crosby took second. 45 more laps to go.
. . .
We had been gone for minutes now. The adrenaline high had subsided while the screaming maw of pain emerged. I prayed for endorphins. The Minnesota rider missed a pull. Was he a contender then? I would have to watch my own efforts. Our breakaway's gilding began to tarnish. An undeniable truth, I was the outsider in this break of three. Both of my companions rode for Minnesota. Undoubtedly there would come a time when they would conspire against me. I began to size up my enemies, all of which were formidable threats. First and foremost was my body, should it give out I would be cast away from the break to sink into the void. In such a scenario I could only hope to be swallowed up by the hungry chase group prowling the road behind. Then I would be one of them, frantically chasing the riders ahead. Second was the peloton itself, its whole purpose bent on the pursuit of us three. Our only hope against our chasers was that they did not possess many more weapons than we did. My Minnesota companions were my last threat. The fact that they would only remain compatriots of mine as long as I remained useful and as long as it benefitted them could not be escaped. We were well clear of the peloton, but we weren't in the clear yet. There was still much work to be done. I pushed the thoughts of betrayal into the back of my head taking them as a mental note, there would be a time to deal with them soon enough.
For twenty miles we didn't say much of anything to one another. Our whole effort was bent on gaining as much of a time gap on the peloton as possible. It wasn't until we had passed the men's category 3 riders, who started at least 5 minutes before us, that we began to talk. Crosby broke the ice by saying that we had most likely broken the spirits of the chase. For the first time in an hour I took what was closest to a sigh of relief. Our break had stuck. We were going to make it. Taking this opportunity I made sure Crosby knew that I knew who he was and introduced myself to the unknown Minnesota rider. I finally had a name to go with him, it was Brandon. We made chit chat for some miles, all the while them sizing me up and me them. We had defeated our enemy the chase group, I had conquered my body, so that left only one problem; I was the outsider. I felt comfortable with the knowledge that the break had only succeeded with my help and that there were roughly 30 miles left to race. However, Crosby and Brandon could climb the final hill leading to the finish better than me. That was my only major weakness, because I had been far excelling them on flat ground. Except for on the final hill an attack wouldn't drop me, and that's where it happened.
Crosby started opening a gap on the climb. I sat in a small gear ratio with Brandon behind me. Coming around my right he made a move to get a water bottle from a Minnesota fan at the feed station. He bridged to Crosby. I sat and made a joke up to them about wanting a fan club like theirs. I was feigning strength hoping they would overlook the growing gap between us. Brandon looked back and turned his head saying something to Crosby. They stood on their pedals and the gap grew. In response I stood, but the gap widened. I yelled ahead trying to appeal to their sense of reason. They knew they could drop me on the same hill on the last lap and take the finish, I wouldn't be challenging their win. If they dropped me now I'd have an entire 21 mile lap by myself. It would be an incredible effort to keep up my pace and not get caught by any chasers. They kept standing and by increments their lead grew.
Head down I gave my best TT effort to make chase, but the odds were against me. Two men working together almost always beats one, this time was no exception. There are a mix of emotions in a race when something simply isn't possible. A sense of calm settled over me as soon as I accepted the fact that 3rd place was going to be as good as I could finish. After that realization passed the fear of being caught by any chasers grew. Right then and there I decided the only way I could have any chance at guaranteeing myself 3rd place was to go as hard as I could for the remaining 21 miles, and I did. For 21 miles my legs burned, for 21 miles I went without food or water, and for 21 miles I kept Crosby and Brandon on the horizon. When it was all over I put my fist in the air crossing the finish line third.
Note: All other collegiate A/B races ranked both A's and B's into the same finish. Because the Minnesota races were for conference championship titles the A's had 1st, 2nd, and 3rd finishers and the B's had 1st, 2nd, and 3rd finishers regardless of the fact that A's and B's raced in the same field. By this scoring I won 1st place in the B's road race and 1st place (4th among A/B's) in the B's criterium and became the North-Central category B road and criterium conference champion.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Tour De Husker 4/17-4/19 2009: Part I
By the time David arrived at my apartment on Friday I was all ready to go. Everything was packed neatly, awaiting storage in his coupe. We were running a bit ahead of schedule, which was good because we'd end up losing time later on. For now we were golden; quite literally, thanks to a break in the recent cold spell. The weeks leading to this one had weather that could be best described as tumultuous. If it was to be warm that day the winds would be blowing well in excess of 25mph. Those days were few and far in between, most days were cold and as of late, wet. This day, however, the sun shone bright. Our drive started with us hanging our arms out the windows, taking it all in.
The trip was scheduled for three hours one-way. First we would pass into Missouri, take a short jaunt into Iowa, and then swing West into Nebraska ending in Lincoln. Our bit to Missouri passed quickly and quite taken by the prospect of showing me his home and hometown David suggested that we stop off in St. Joseph. Obviously beaming with pride, David excitedly showed me his parents collection of recumbent tandems. The Neidinger's passion to cycling (although unorthodox) became evident to me through David's retelling of their numerous family excursions and cross-state rides. As David jokingly put it, his dad was super strong because he'd end up pulling his mom around town all day. "Sometimes she'd even pedal," Mr. Neidinger laughed himself when I met him on the following Sunday. Although, at the time, the sight of an aerospoke equipped recumbent-tandem quite took me back I thought it somehow fitting. It did the stories justice. While looking at the family's second tandem a buzzing noise grabbed my attention. Shooting a glance under a set of stairs, I witnessed the automatic litter box self scooping. "Whoa, high-tech," I thought to myself, I'd never actually seen an automatic litter box in person before. "The cat has good timing," David mused. Both of us being hungry we quickly began our foraging expedition, moving from the garage upstairs. Rounding a corner into the kitchen the first thing that caught my eye was the hanging aero garden that was currently growing basil and daisies. Walking deeper into the kitchen a venerable collection of family photographs (mostly biking trips) and cycling motifs hung on the walls and adorned cabinents. This struck me as something really cool. Though the various statues and pictures of bicycles were obviously of an older taste, the fact that such a display existed in a family home was exciting. I'd never seen anything quite like it. I began to get a feel for the Neidinger family. They are efficient people, proud of who they are, and enthusiatic about their sport.
Grabbing some fruit, yogurt, and granola bars (before marveling at the trashcan with an automatic lid) David and I jumped back into his coupe and were off. The next bit of our journey is one long detail; at high speeds his car rack vibrates extraordinarily loud, we listened to music I hadn't heard in 8 years, we listened to some music I had never heard (including some hilarious rap music), the road was flat, we drove fast, we discussed the fact that Iowa has no idea how to maintain a decent stretch of highway, and then ultimately missed our turn and went a full hour off course. On the bright side Omaha wasn't that bad, because that's where we ended up. Though dismayed by our detour, I can honestly say that "all's well that ends well." What I'm getting at is that we stopped at the most impressive gas station I've ever seen in my entire life; Fantasy's Phillips 66. I wish we would have taken a picture. At every pump was a flat screen TV (albeit playing Bill O'Reilly). The awesomeness didn't stop there. Inside was a small marketplace and bathrooms fit for a king. Oddly enough there was even a chair in the men's room, don't ask why. Grabbing a banana and some gummy sharks we prepared to pay and hit the road again. Upon checking out, the station's clerk responded to my amazed remarks about Fantasy's laviousness by calmly informing me there were "only twelve in Omaha." Honestly, I didn't know what to say to that. He also called my gummy sharks "dolphins." Obviously he was an extraordinarily irrational person. I took my purchases and left without further comment.
Our detour into Omaha had set us back an hour, but with Banana and "dolphin" sharks in belly I was fairly content. David, however, was not. He was freaking out. I've never seen the kid so riled up. For another hour we drove to Lincoln, you'd think it was the worst hour of his life. It probably had to do something with all that Bill O'Reilly we watched at Fantasy's. When we did reach Lincoln I saw David switch from depressive to manic. I stayed with the car and bikes while he ran inside to check in to our room. Upon his return he excitedly exclaimed that, "he'd just seen the most beautiful girl in the world." I forget what he said her name was (I never could remember it during the trip either), but she was supposed to be gorgeous. Trusting David's judgement I hurriedly grabbed an arm's load of stuff and made for the reception desk to behold this beauty. Later on in the weekend David admitted that he was under the influence of road stupor and that he had beer goggles on, because whatever he name was wasn't a knockout. We had finally made it to Lincoln.
The trip was scheduled for three hours one-way. First we would pass into Missouri, take a short jaunt into Iowa, and then swing West into Nebraska ending in Lincoln. Our bit to Missouri passed quickly and quite taken by the prospect of showing me his home and hometown David suggested that we stop off in St. Joseph. Obviously beaming with pride, David excitedly showed me his parents collection of recumbent tandems. The Neidinger's passion to cycling (although unorthodox) became evident to me through David's retelling of their numerous family excursions and cross-state rides. As David jokingly put it, his dad was super strong because he'd end up pulling his mom around town all day. "Sometimes she'd even pedal," Mr. Neidinger laughed himself when I met him on the following Sunday. Although, at the time, the sight of an aerospoke equipped recumbent-tandem quite took me back I thought it somehow fitting. It did the stories justice. While looking at the family's second tandem a buzzing noise grabbed my attention. Shooting a glance under a set of stairs, I witnessed the automatic litter box self scooping. "Whoa, high-tech," I thought to myself, I'd never actually seen an automatic litter box in person before. "The cat has good timing," David mused. Both of us being hungry we quickly began our foraging expedition, moving from the garage upstairs. Rounding a corner into the kitchen the first thing that caught my eye was the hanging aero garden that was currently growing basil and daisies. Walking deeper into the kitchen a venerable collection of family photographs (mostly biking trips) and cycling motifs hung on the walls and adorned cabinents. This struck me as something really cool. Though the various statues and pictures of bicycles were obviously of an older taste, the fact that such a display existed in a family home was exciting. I'd never seen anything quite like it. I began to get a feel for the Neidinger family. They are efficient people, proud of who they are, and enthusiatic about their sport.
Grabbing some fruit, yogurt, and granola bars (before marveling at the trashcan with an automatic lid) David and I jumped back into his coupe and were off. The next bit of our journey is one long detail; at high speeds his car rack vibrates extraordinarily loud, we listened to music I hadn't heard in 8 years, we listened to some music I had never heard (including some hilarious rap music), the road was flat, we drove fast, we discussed the fact that Iowa has no idea how to maintain a decent stretch of highway, and then ultimately missed our turn and went a full hour off course. On the bright side Omaha wasn't that bad, because that's where we ended up. Though dismayed by our detour, I can honestly say that "all's well that ends well." What I'm getting at is that we stopped at the most impressive gas station I've ever seen in my entire life; Fantasy's Phillips 66. I wish we would have taken a picture. At every pump was a flat screen TV (albeit playing Bill O'Reilly). The awesomeness didn't stop there. Inside was a small marketplace and bathrooms fit for a king. Oddly enough there was even a chair in the men's room, don't ask why. Grabbing a banana and some gummy sharks we prepared to pay and hit the road again. Upon checking out, the station's clerk responded to my amazed remarks about Fantasy's laviousness by calmly informing me there were "only twelve in Omaha." Honestly, I didn't know what to say to that. He also called my gummy sharks "dolphins." Obviously he was an extraordinarily irrational person. I took my purchases and left without further comment.
Our detour into Omaha had set us back an hour, but with Banana and "dolphin" sharks in belly I was fairly content. David, however, was not. He was freaking out. I've never seen the kid so riled up. For another hour we drove to Lincoln, you'd think it was the worst hour of his life. It probably had to do something with all that Bill O'Reilly we watched at Fantasy's. When we did reach Lincoln I saw David switch from depressive to manic. I stayed with the car and bikes while he ran inside to check in to our room. Upon his return he excitedly exclaimed that, "he'd just seen the most beautiful girl in the world." I forget what he said her name was (I never could remember it during the trip either), but she was supposed to be gorgeous. Trusting David's judgement I hurriedly grabbed an arm's load of stuff and made for the reception desk to behold this beauty. Later on in the weekend David admitted that he was under the influence of road stupor and that he had beer goggles on, because whatever he name was wasn't a knockout. We had finally made it to Lincoln.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Facet One: It's All in the Timing
I used to think bicycle racing was about going fast; more specifically, how fast I could get my top end speed. The idea was that if I could get my fastest high enough, I'd win races. It was a shot in the right direction, but a bit off the mark. It's good to be able to go fast, but if one guy has your wheel and comes around you, your best will only be worth second place. Not to mention, if that guy has a guy who's got a wheel. Your marvelous top end speed turns into a great leadout for the paceline behind you, catching a draft to the finish line. No, I didn't know the first thing about racing, and that was ok. I hadn't raced. I knew a thing or two about base fitness, it helped propel me to a little success in my first few races. There I could go fast, and that was just enough to win. Not anymore. I have been the pace car for one too many leadout trains, for different teams that is. I was a non-racer trying my best to understand the sport.
I feel sorry for people who don't race, let alone ride, that try to comprehend the whole of bicycle racing. From time to time the spectator will catch a glimpse of a single facet, it will flicker, a bulb will light up, and it will pass. The whole of the gem will continue to rotate and those unknown facets will be beautiful indeed, but not illuminating. Anyone can admire the beauty of someone doing something great, it is unmistakeably exciting, much the same as a diamond is undeniably beautiful. The bicycle racer's ultimate quest is to step from the roadside to discover all of the facets of his sport, to cease to admire and begin to understand.
Saturday's Spring Fling Criterium saw the moment when I caught a glimpse of a facet. The moment when I realized that my top speed wouldn't bring home the win. Simply put, it's all in the timing. You won't get to where you're going until you're ready and only your honest effort will turn the pedal stroke. Go hard, go fast, slow down, take a rest.
I feel sorry for people who don't race, let alone ride, that try to comprehend the whole of bicycle racing. From time to time the spectator will catch a glimpse of a single facet, it will flicker, a bulb will light up, and it will pass. The whole of the gem will continue to rotate and those unknown facets will be beautiful indeed, but not illuminating. Anyone can admire the beauty of someone doing something great, it is unmistakeably exciting, much the same as a diamond is undeniably beautiful. The bicycle racer's ultimate quest is to step from the roadside to discover all of the facets of his sport, to cease to admire and begin to understand.
Saturday's Spring Fling Criterium saw the moment when I caught a glimpse of a facet. The moment when I realized that my top speed wouldn't bring home the win. Simply put, it's all in the timing. You won't get to where you're going until you're ready and only your honest effort will turn the pedal stroke. Go hard, go fast, slow down, take a rest.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The glorious sun comes out
It's getting warmer now and with the warmth hopefully comes a resurgence of intellect. As cyclists we are all keenly aware of the past months and their cold winter rides; with the wind blowing and the maybe 40 degree temps. On those rides the chill doesn't just permeate your body, slowing your pedal stroke and the wind doesn't just make each breath a labor, it makes you more stupid. I believe it is the culmination of these frosty rides and the almost permanent chill that the body succumbs to that puts cyclists into a phase of winter time stupor. For instance, this past weekend.
Gearing up for the Dam Race on Sunday I commented to Brad that I needed to get money for the following day's race. "Well you should probably get it tonight," he said. I calmly declined, being quite sleepy after the day's criterium and ready for bed, I'll get it tomorrow. Which brings us to Sunday. Having packed up and ready to leave for Lawrence Brad suggests that we stop by and get the money on the way out of town. "Naaaah," I reply, "we'll get it in Lawrence, that'll be waaaay easier." Of course, upon arriving in Lawrence, I discover I don't have my ATM card and of course I make the chillbrained decision to race back to Olathe to get it. By the time we do get my card it's 10:06am and the race starts in 24 minutes. I'm no rocket surgeon, but if it takes about 50 minutes to get from Olathe to Perry Lake and we've got only 24 minutes to spare, I'm not going to make it. With that deduction made I continue my streak and do the most illogical thing within my power; I change back into street clothes, remove all my cycling tools from the car, and leave my bike in Olathe. I decide I'm going to simply watch the 3's and 4's.
By now, Brad and I have driven back to Lawrence and reach the race well in time for his start at 2pm. Upon our arrival I'm posed with two simple questions that come from two well thawed brains. The first from Dan is, "why didn't you just ask me to spot you?" Well Dan, because I'm an idiot. The second from Britton is, "why don't you just race the 4's?" My answer, because I left everything I need to race in Olathe.. due to me being an idiot. In summation, I missed my start time, drove back and forth between Olathe and Lawrence 3 times, and ended up killing my chances to race in the 4's for the day. What's a guy to do in such a circumstance? I took a nap.
After getting some zzz's I was able to watch Brad defend his points lead, Britton finish strong, and appreciate Dan's earlier triumph in the 5's. Once I stopped and thawed out a bit, I put aside my shortcomings for the day and was able to see the great things that my team was doing. In perspective, me not racing wasn't even an issue, the team had done great and I felt humble just to be there to see it.
Gearing up for the Dam Race on Sunday I commented to Brad that I needed to get money for the following day's race. "Well you should probably get it tonight," he said. I calmly declined, being quite sleepy after the day's criterium and ready for bed, I'll get it tomorrow. Which brings us to Sunday. Having packed up and ready to leave for Lawrence Brad suggests that we stop by and get the money on the way out of town. "Naaaah," I reply, "we'll get it in Lawrence, that'll be waaaay easier." Of course, upon arriving in Lawrence, I discover I don't have my ATM card and of course I make the chillbrained decision to race back to Olathe to get it. By the time we do get my card it's 10:06am and the race starts in 24 minutes. I'm no rocket surgeon, but if it takes about 50 minutes to get from Olathe to Perry Lake and we've got only 24 minutes to spare, I'm not going to make it. With that deduction made I continue my streak and do the most illogical thing within my power; I change back into street clothes, remove all my cycling tools from the car, and leave my bike in Olathe. I decide I'm going to simply watch the 3's and 4's.
By now, Brad and I have driven back to Lawrence and reach the race well in time for his start at 2pm. Upon our arrival I'm posed with two simple questions that come from two well thawed brains. The first from Dan is, "why didn't you just ask me to spot you?" Well Dan, because I'm an idiot. The second from Britton is, "why don't you just race the 4's?" My answer, because I left everything I need to race in Olathe.. due to me being an idiot. In summation, I missed my start time, drove back and forth between Olathe and Lawrence 3 times, and ended up killing my chances to race in the 4's for the day. What's a guy to do in such a circumstance? I took a nap.
After getting some zzz's I was able to watch Brad defend his points lead, Britton finish strong, and appreciate Dan's earlier triumph in the 5's. Once I stopped and thawed out a bit, I put aside my shortcomings for the day and was able to see the great things that my team was doing. In perspective, me not racing wasn't even an issue, the team had done great and I felt humble just to be there to see it.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Up late before the race..
It's 12:30am, I'm waiting for my kit to dry, and I just opened a can of beans with a knife. Before that I was paroozing new fictions, gamer's guides, and cycling how-to's, over at Border's Books. How did I top it all off? I shaved my legs. To be honest, the shaving cream can is getting a little low.. These days I don't even want to start thinking about shelling over another $5 for Barbasol, entry fees have been breaking my bank and I need it for food. The pantry is a little low and all I've got is a bunch of cheese. Earlier in the week, when I had the flu, mom popped over to Lawrence and dropped off some groceries. In the two grocery bags she brought me were six bags of cheese, she brought me six 8-ounce bags of cheese. That's a total of 3 pounds! I guess the stuff was on sale for dirt cheap. It wouldn't be so bad, but she only brought one loaf of bread and a meager 1 1/2 pounds of meats.. no condiments. Hey, beggars can't be choosers, right? Coincidentally I was out of condiments. Under the circumstances everything I made this week constituted a grilled cheese sandwich. It didn't matter if it was a ham sandwich or tomato soup, there was enough cheese in the recipie, that by law, it had to be called grilled cheese. After all that did I make a dent in my supply? I've still got five bags left.
Right now, the time is going on 12:56am, I'm waiting for my kit to dry sitting in Brad's basement, there's no cheese, just beans. I think to myself, these beans are plain, they sure could use some cheese.
Right now, the time is going on 12:56am, I'm waiting for my kit to dry sitting in Brad's basement, there's no cheese, just beans. I think to myself, these beans are plain, they sure could use some cheese.
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