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.
Monday, June 29, 2009
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.
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