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.
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