The Elastic Snaps

I can't do this anymore. Just hold the wheel in front of you. I can't do this anymore. For a split second my cadence relents, coming out of turn two. In the blink of an eye I'm sitting twenty positions further back. No, don't do it, just keep going. If you keep going the pain will stop. I wish I could, but I can't. I won't.

It's been seven months since I started structured training; the schedule of graded fitness, peaks, and valleys. Seven months of living like a monk, so they say. During that time I hadn't touched alcohol, hung out with friends, eaten what I wanted to eat; instead I rode my bike. Everyday.

For seven months my life has been an example of discipline, sacrifice, endurance, and willpower. In all of those things, as of now, I am almost completely bankrupt. Mental and emotional bankruptcy is the I won't that has defeated me no matter how much I wish for the contrary.

Endurance training and competition is likened to an elastic band, the newer you are to the concept the less your capacity to stretch. Before you snap.

Over the course of the season you stretch in anticipation of a peak, hopefully to your maximal limit, but not beyond. If you pull the band too tight all your training is for naught and you have to let it take slack. Sometimes the band snaps. In that event you'll be putting up your road shoes until next year.

Jesus Christ. You came all the way down here, don't give up you fool. I didn't want to, but I had to come, I needed to know, just to be sure. Ten more positions down. Little gaps open up. Competitors swarm around and speed ahead like salmon up a stream. I'm sinking. This isn't me. Someone else is racing in my place. God what an embarrassment. I'm tired of the pain, the sacrifice, constantly being on edge, stewing over training, the next race, my weight. One more place.. another. I can't because I won't. I don't want this anymore.

Snap.

"It's too hot for you guys to be doing this," comments a passerby. I'm sitting in the shade of a building, propped up against it's cool brick facade. I mumble something of a reply. It's almost automatic, done out of some sense of courtesy. His overweight form begins to waddle off down the street. I feel sick. Watching him meander down the street I imagine he just welcomed me to the ranks of the disgusting mediocre.









Author's note:
I haven't given up cycling, this post is merely my literary rendition of "burn-out" and the effects it has. Burn-out is quite powerful, and though it is in most cases transient, it can still lead to immediate feelings of long-term conviction. Honestly enough, I doubted that I would ever want to ride my bike again after the Springfield Crit; though I have realized I simply need time off.

My experience with burn-out is worth sharing because many cyclists feel its effects and, like me, might be knocked back on their heels by them. What I have found through my own experiences is that when faced with chronic feelings of discontent (i.e. not even wanting to touch your bike) an individual has to size up their situation and change their course of action. In my case I realized that ending my road season now would be best for having a healthy and successful season next year.

As for now I'm swimming with my girlfriend and running with my best bud, heck I might even do a triathalon.

Sick Happens

I had been feeling increased muscle fatigue during training since Monday, but it wasn't until late Thursday that more serious symptoms began to set in. Friday morning I drove over to Olathe from Lawrence feeling pretty awful, but determined to push through whatever it was and race that night. While doing race prep at my family's house I collapsed and spent the rest of the day in bed. For three days I didn't leave bed except to shit and piss. Those three days in bed were a paincation with all the accoutrements: muscle aches, joint aches, headaches, nausea, fever, and fatigue.. it was the total package. Oh baby, did I get my money's worth.

Being sick is pretty unremarkable, being sick in June with the flu is more of a head turner; I'll admit. My best guess is that I contracted the swine flu. I really don't care about falling ill; yeah, it's inconvenient, it's painful, it's whatever. Bottom line, it sucks. What bothers me is that it's a waste of time. After last weekend I can't help but feel like I missed the party, and with this weekend rapidly approaching, I'm sure, at best, I'll be attending the affair a tad under dressed. That's life though mate. You put three stars on your calendar for two weekends in a row, manage a pretty spotless rest period, do two-a-days to get back in shape; eventually, just to see most of it sweated off in bed.

You've just gotta take the ego blow and get ready to rumble the next chance you get. That's precisely what I intend to do.

Urgency's the Word

It's been one and a half years since I toed the line at the 2009 edition of the Spring Fling, my first bike race. Funny enough, I was more afraid of not winning the race, than actually losing it. I was so nervous then, and eager, that I went almost from the gun. It must have been some sight to see; a chunky kid, wearing outlandish girl-shades, riding an orange bike that no-one rides, lapping most of the field. They called the finish blessedly early, I collapsed off the bike begging for water. Two days later I laid up in bed, with a raging fever, on account of pushing myself to exhaustion in back-to-back days of racing in the spring cold. Though that early March race was my first, I wouldn't consider it as the start to my racing career. For me, my start was when I made the decision that this was for me, and I went all in. I had been tooling around on bikes with Brad for, probably, two months prior. He'll never let me forget that I refused to ride during the day, on account of how hot it was. Instead, we would patrol the local bike paths during the evening. On those rides I rode a Trek mountain bike. Still, my passion was fueled by Tour de France stages and Brad's regailings of races past, and so my love never waivered from the road. As such, the Trek had every tweak-able component tweaked, flipped, or switched for roadie sensibilities.. or so I thought! The first order of business to get her road ready, was to flip her 30 degree stem upside down, then replace the flat bars with bull-horn handlebars; and finally, jack the seatpost as far up as it would go. Despite the fact that I hybridized almost everything I could to ride on the pavement, it would be awhile longer before I agreed to wear a helmet (owing to that they made my head hot); and even longer still, until I wore a proper kit. In the time being, Brad was kind enough to gift me an old pair of bike shorts and gloves. Unfortunately for me, or rather those riding with me, the bike shorts were so stretched by my large frame and threadbare from use, that I had to wear boxer briefs under them to be considered truly street legal. Somehow, back then, all this didn't seem so absurd. That was it, that's how it all started. I was a 21-year-old, 235 lb. ex-rugby player, wearing the most outlandish road outfit possible, and riding a mountain bike gender changed to the road. All of this considered, I looked Brad straight in the eye and told him that I intended to cat-up to 2 in my first season, and that I also intended to go pro. In hind-sight, I realize that I had no right to say such a thing. If I knew then how hard it was going to be, how many life choices I would have to make to get even here, how many things I would inadvertently give up; I may not have been so bold. I think ignorance played to my advantage though; not knowing. My answer to everything was to just put my head down and charge ahead, to always give it everything I had. As a cat 5 I was riding 60-70 miles, and hard too. The whole while being completely clueless as to what I should or could do. Not getting the time of day from serious roadies didn't bother me; honestly, I didn't want their approval, I intended to earn it when the time came. The one thing I was certain of then, was that I wasn't there yet. My master plan has always been to earn respect with my legs, to achieve, to win. This logic is two-fold; a blessing and a curse. Such a mentality has motivated me onward and upward, much as it still does today; however, I'm never completely satisfied. The taste of victory doesn't last long and the grass is always greener around the next podium. To put it plainly, urgency has always been the word. To succeed. To win. To cat-up. Though that may be, you still have to stop and smell the roses, and appreciate the small things. There's a lot more to be gained from racing, than victory on the finish line. Racing, training, and riding can change you, it can make you a better person. Finally, one day, you look in the mirror, and you're proud to see who's looking back.

The Agony or the Ecstasy

Thursday:

2pm: Phil and I arrive at Devil's Den State Park. 2:15pm: Philip gets the trainer tire on my spare wheel and readies my bike for the coming TT... 2:48pm: I roll around on the bike and test my legs on the park's switch-backs, they feel pretty good... 3:35pm: Philip checks my start time, it's 4:47:00pm... 4pm: 47-minutes until I depart; I put on my skinsuit and begin warming up in earnest... 4:45:36: that's what the digital clock reads outside the starting house, I've heard my name announced for call-up's. I roll into the starting house and am greeted to the sight of a few racers milling around confused. It has to be close to my departure time, I shout to the officials that my start is 4:47:00 and that my name is Matt Pfannenstiel (it still is on my license). They thumb through the list and say, "you missed your start time, roll when you're ready." It can't be, the clock outside the house said no later than 4:46:00 by the time I entered, and I enquired about my departure as soon as I entered starting house. "Go now," they say, and I sprint.

"No... no... NO. NO!!!" A broken record of that one word soundtrack plays in my head. I'm racing at 33mph to the base of the climb and mount its base climbing at 26. Within a minute I catch the racer in front of me; we're climbing at 17mph. Half-way up the climb we're holding 17, then I pop. 13 is a good as it gets during the real steep part. A climber from Dogfish racing catches me and passes. At this point I don't know how to pace myself, I don't know how many seconds I lost in my missed start, I never had a chance to set my computer. There's running and then there's running blind. Right now, I'm as blind as a bat. "Just finish," I tell myself, "just get it done."

At the top I nearly collapse.

Friday:

Turns out I'm 2-minutes and 15-seconds down on 1st GC. A Tulsa rider, Joe S., Dewey Dicky make up the top three in the general classification. I'm riding pack today and saving it for the sprint, it's all stage prizes from here on out. I'm okay with that, Mercy is going to protect Joe's GC spot and will bring back most of the breaks. Moves go from the gun, but nothing sticks this early on. I sit and I wait. A strong break heads up the road, six or seven riders, and quickly opens up a 30 second gap. I jump.

Each second is gobbled up by my sprinting legs, I sit only to take a sharp left and resume attack coming out of the turn, closing the gap to the lead group. My attack was strong, no one held my wheel, I arrived at the break alone. It was strong enough to elicit panic from the peloton though, which is hot in pursuit. In a few minutes they absorb us and it's back to pack riding.. and the crashes start.

No one wants to ride in the wind. Each moment is filled with jockeying for position, position on a wheel that is following wheel, a wheel that snakes across the road, following wheels. We don't ride constant, straight, or smoothly. In the peloton you're either passing, being passed, tapping the breaks, or jamming the pedals. At this moment I'm in the zone, unaware of reality, just flowing. My subconscious takes over, smoothing out my motions, removing nerves from the equation.

It starts with a shout, then the squealing of brake pads on carbon rims, that awful sound of hollow carbon cracking, and finally the surreal sight of bodies splaying across the pavement. Utter carnage in the blink of an eye. I remember the shocked look on the face of a rider as he and his red bike careen across the road towards me. I escaped on the right side; one of the last to neither be caught up or caught in the crash.

I would crash in 40 miles more, hand to my mouth taking a feed. It happened the same way; a shout, a squeal, and a crack as I went down. Immediately getting back to my feet I put my chain back on the small ring and struggled to get my shaking foot clipped in. "There's a big descent coming up, if you haul ass you can catch," a motorcycle escort said to me. I managed 26mph on the descent. Something was wrong, I felt like I had a parachute on my back. I got off at the bottom and checked to see if my wheels were knocked against the stays, they weren't. I checked my brakes, they were good. 16 miles-per-hour on the flats and I was dieing. Riders previously shelled began to catch, I couldn't hold their wheels. I told them I felt something was wrong with my bike, they said just to press on. Four or five groups dropped me.

20.. 15.. 10.. 5.. 3.. 1 mile to the second feed zone. I prayed that Philip hadn't left me and proceeded to the finish. I had been riding 20 miles uphill, into a headwind, and I was blowing up. How can this be? I thought to myself. How could that crash utterly derail me? I was riding strong in the pack, the gap I bridged felt good, and now? Why?

Philip saw me cresting the hill to the final feed barely keeping my bike up. "I just want to finish," I told him. There was blood everywhere. My wounds looked like something from World War II. Gravel mingled with enormous blood clots and blood covered most of my left arm. I didn't want to look at them, they were too horrible. "Finish strong," was what Philip said when he saw me off from the feed zone.

Andrew Coe and Mesa's Alex were the next to catch up to me. Andrew had been at the front all day for Mercy and popped a while back. I told him something had to be wrong with my bike. "Your back left brake is rubbing," he said matter of factly. It was. I reached back and pulled it loose. Immediately my speed went from a pained 18mph to comfortable 24. Mother f***er. I went 20 miles, uphill, into a headwind, braking. That was the hardest 20 miles of my life, I'll never quit a race after that.

Twenty-six miles later I kissed the pavement past the finish line. Handing my bike off to Philip I headed over to the medical tent, put my jersey between my teeth, grabbed a towel, and scrubbed the gravel out of my wounds.

Today I found out that I didn't make the time cut. Philip asked me how I felt about it. "Disappointed," I responded, "I wasn't about to quit." That's what this weekend did, it took quit out of my vocabulary. At this level shit is going to happen, it's not a matter of if, but when. The important thing is how you handle it; whether you cower in the corner and give up or compose yourself and look for other chances. There's always next year; not to mention, next week.

What is Pro? Baby Don't Hurt Me.. Don't Hurt Me.. No More

Sunday is redemption day. I told that to myself a little less than a year ago up in Muscatine, Iowa at the Melon City Crit. Last Sunday I was telling myself that very same thing all over again. The day before, in Saturday's road race, I finished somewhere mid-pack after a gruelling day of following attacks and bridging gaps. I cracked as the last move went and narrowly lost out on the winning break. Sunday's Capitol City Criterium was my chance at vindication and a chance to prove myself as a neo-semi-pro. I felt the same way in Muscatine a year ago. Back then, the day before Melon City, I had had a rear derailleur failure and DNF'd out of Snake Alley. At the Melon City Crit I went out with my head on fire, in hopes of solidifying my presence as a neo-3. The crit was gruelling, but I stayed at the front all the way to the final 100 meters; where I was caught up in a crash and watched victory slip away. Fate, it seems, has a sense of irony.

Sitting in the third row at the starting line I had already made up my mind; positioning into the first descent would be paramount. I had heard the day before that the first five laps are hell, and that the ultimate selection comes from the strong men during those laps. Before the start, I had recon'ed the course over and over; first taking the descent at speed and finding the best line through the 90 degree right hander at its base, and then testing my legs on the subsequent 100 foot climb. My recon was good.

At the gun I clipped in fluidly and proceeded to pick my way past those struggling to start. Immediately falling into a position in the top 10 I knew I was in good company, seeing Tilford, another teammate of his, and a handful of Texas Roadhouse pros. Our group took the descent with the utmost speed and put the hammer down on the following climb. We kept plugging away, when all of a sudden, no one had our wheels and we were off the front. Just like they said, the first 5 laps were hell and that's where the selection came from.

It was Tilford, his Tradewind teammate, 4 Roadhouse guys, a few other elite riders, and myself; rounding out the break. After realizing we were the move, my first thought was, "holy shit, Philip is going to freak when he sees who I'm off the front with!" In short order we opened a gap bordering on 40 seconds, and then the attacks started in earnest. Roadhouse, having so many in the break, began rotating attacks and playing possum. We reeled in a few of the attacks and I even took turns at the front, all the while bridging gaps and dealing out my own digs.

I felt strong. Ridculously strong, considering the company I was in. Getting dropped didn't look like a possibility; and when push came to shove, I could jump any gaps in the break. With about 15 laps to go out of 40, Tilford sat up. He let the wheel of his teammate in front of him go. We were coming into the last turn to the finish and there wasn't any time to pass before, so I resolved to cross the gap after we came out. Ducking out from behind the Roadhouse rider who had Tilford's wheel, I began my pass on the world champ's right. A split second after I began my move, Tilford pulled hard right, crossing my path. I yelled, "NOOOO!!" but the damage was done. His rear wheel crossed my front wheel and turned it sharply to the right. As my bike spasmed violently, my momentum carried me over my bars and onto the pavement.

It's hard to explain what I was thinking at that moment, but suffice to say it rankled of defeat. Laying in pain on the tarmac the event staff helped me to the curb. All the while I just kept saying Tilford's name over and over, asking him why. He had derailed me, more emotionally than anything else. I'm not blaming him, hell, I have the utmost respect for the man. He happened to be making a "I'm-not-pulling-your-ass-around-the-course" sharp turn off when I was coming around to pass him. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Between the event staff babying you in an attempt to make sure you're ok and the fact that all you can think is, "oh my god, that was my chance to breakout and it's gone," it's hard to get your head straight. I stood up and started pacing, blood dripping from my shoulder and running from the wounds on my leg. "What the hell am I doing?" I finally asked myself, "get back on the bike!" Dashing across the street I barked an order to the pit crew to put on my spare wheel. An official approached me saying, "why are you going back out there? It won't make a difference, you're laps down." I responded by telling him that I didn't give a shit and that I wasn't going to DNF another race. "Ok," he sighed. I threw a leg over my saddle and asked when I could go. "Now, I guess," he responded. My reply was a few hard pedal strokes. The crowd roared.

There was about a quarter of the race left to go. It was all passion, I put everything I had left into the pedals. I'm not sure how fast I was going because the pit crew put my skewer on the wrong side of the wheel; all I know is that the group I re-entered in front of never caught me. I could hear the pace car coming up behind me each lap, and each time I crushed the pedals and kept it at bay. Every time that I rounded the corner I went down on the crowd roared and cheered, "go number 19!!" I couldn't believe people actually cared what I was doing out there, that I had gotten back on the bike. It wasn't for show, it was for me.

The laps ticked down; 10, 9, 8, 7... 3, 2, 1, 0, they rang the bell for the last man on the course; me. I was the only one left. I put my head down and pushed on, tears mingled with the blood running down my leg. I crossed the finish line to the roar of the crowd, one hand raised in the air thanking them.


Special thanks to my mechanic Philip, it wouldn't have been the same without you buddy. We'll get the win soon.

Capitol City Criterium, TT and Road Race

The rain let up just in time for my 4:14pm roll out from the TT starting blocks yesterday. Ok, there weren't exactly any real starting blocks.. actually, come to think of it, there wasn't even a line painted to start behind. The first five miles of the 10 out-and-back was mega fast. I topped out at 37mph without any real descents. At the turn-around point the wind came on as a direct headwind. I'm grateful that Britton let me borrow his Lazer TT helmet; that combined with booties, a skin suit, and TT bars made the return trip do-able. I haven't done many individual time trials, so the whole thing was a good learning experience. Without a dedicated TT rig, your johnson always shrinks a tad to see some guys on their speed machines with aero spokes and disc wheels. All-in-all I'd say an 8th place finish was ok. I think I was a minute and a half down on first, while averaging 26mph overall. Those other dudes were flying.

Rain has been haunting the mid-west the last couple of days. Today we would have much the same luck as yesterday, with only a small portion of the course seeing precipitation. From the outset I knew today's race would be a slamma jamma. Steve Tilford and a few of his Tradewind teammates showed up and a number of Texas Roadhouse pros were racing. A real strong Mercy/Specialized squad rounded out the big guns. This would be my first pro 1/2 race. Let me stress that there is a difference between pro 1/2 and elite 1/2. It has do do with the word PRO. P. R. O. For an amateur, that spells,"hold on to your nuts."

From the gun a Mercy/Specialized dude took a flyer. We kind of just watched him ride away, and the whole time I was thinking, "should I try to bridge to that guy? It's 65 miles to the finish and we're only going 18mph... ah... umm... eee... ahh..." Taking a minute to think about it, I decided there were way too many big guns in the peloton to let one dude ride away with the race. That turned out to be the correct assumption. After lap 1 the pace got all sorts of hot and heavy. Typically the flow of the race went something like this: one guy would attack, those on the front would watch him open a gap, someone would attempt to bridge to him, and the rest of the peloton would come along in tow. Those kinds of manoeuvres continued for the next couple of laps, each time the severity of the gap and those represented would increase. Laps 2 through 4 I spent a decent amount of time bridging gaps. I felt I had to. If a move went up the road, and there was decent representation in it, most the teams weren't motivated to bridge their own break. In those cases off I'd go, head down, sprinting like my life depended on it. When the pack thought too many riders were headed up the road they'd mobilize to chase; every time I went I'd glance back to see the peloton snaking not far behind. "At least I get to sit in a bit before the next attack," I told myself. Near the end of lap 4 the ante got upped. A move went, bridgers pursued, but instead of working to the break, attackers sprung from the bridging effort. If you want to know what war feels like, that might be a proper comparison. Dudes are flying by you right and left as you're dodging others, you're catching wheels, and trying to bridge to stronger ones, you sit, then sprint, sit, then sprint. Your legs scream, cry, beg, and sooner or later you realize they're not saying anything anymore; they just won't comply. Your legs have nothing left. At that moment, the break is only 100 feet up the road and you have to watch them ride away; they might as well be 100 miles away. That's how you miss the final move and finish 22nd.

Note to self: Do more one-minute, descending, and power intervals are to increase top speed and recovery. Find good sources of protein.

Something's in the Oven

The weekend started with my arm-warmers burning in the oven.

Five A.M. is a pretty early wake-up call. I had gotten most everything ready the night before; the team's supply of feed and drinks, my own food, my kit, a change of clothes, my bike, and all of my support gear & equipment. Still, Saturday morning at 5am there was plenty more to do as I bumbled around my apartment filling the team's water cooler, cooking my pancake breakfast, and preparing all of it to travel to Manhattan. I knew it would be chilly in Manhattan and my arm warmers hadn't completely dried from the night before. Doing the only sensible thing that would come to my foggy head I threw them on the top shelf of the oven on 500 degree broil and waited for them to dry. Between cooking pancakes and checking the status of my warmers, the status of my arm-warmers went somewhat neglected; and in turn, they came out of the oven somewhat crispy. That would set the tone of the weekend's races right there, somewhat crispy.

Brandon dribbled off the front at kilometer zero. The fog was still clearing from my head, but a combination of 20+ mph winds, pouring rain, and barely above freezing temps were making it quite the feat. His gap began to grow and I took first wheel to start reeling him in. Glancing back, I noticed Crosby had my wheel. Son-of-a-bitch. Brandon was a decoy to exhaust any chasers while Crosby would sit in and ride draft, pouncing when his competition was the weakest. In a matter of minutes, Patrick, a pro rider for Texas Roadhouse, attacked up to Brandon. Goddammit. That break would stick if a coherent chase didn't evolve in the next couple of minutes. Unfortunately no one felt like doing a lick of work, and obviously their egos were far from stressed, letting me do the bulk of it. Foolishly I began to content myself with pulling the group up to the break and inevitably letting Crosby get the best of me in my soon-to-be spent state. And that's just what happened. Within 40 meters of closing the gap, primarily of my own efforts, the Iowa guys promptly pussed out and Crosby attacked in the hills. My legs were less than 100% going in, and at this point they were somewhere near mutiny with the rest of my body.

Following the last split that saw Crosby off the front and most of the field off the back, it would be a Minnesota B rider, four or five Iowa dudes, and me left to finish out the race behind Brandon, Patrick, and Crosby. I've been in some pretty tough races, and besides the ego blow of being left behind, the weather conditions were quickly escalating this race to top spot as the worst in my career. I've never heard so many guys talking about crying during a race as I did that Saturday. We weren't just physically blown, Mother Nature had made damn sure we'd be emotionally bankrupt as well. To horrific effect, the numbness in my hands was beginning to dully creep up my forearms, my face was a mask of neutrality; I was beyond pain. Upon rounding turn one after the first lap the corner marshal notified us that the 76-mile race would be cut to 50-miles. Thank god. The best I could do for that last 25-miles was shut down emotionally. I didn't think about the race, I hardly talked to my packmates, I wasn't even really there. At the line I pipped the opposition for 4th. Whatever.

. . .

Lap one of the criterium told me I was still feeling the effects of Saturday.. and my bonk on Thursday, the week before. Moving from the front of the action I sunk back into last-wheel to catch draft before getting back in the mix. On lap 2, in the hair-pin, some puke crashed out taking half the field with him. From the back I had plenty of time to slow and slip around the outside and resume chase on the only two who escaped off the front.. Patrick and Crosby. Of course it was two of my toughest competitors, and they weren't about to be gentlemanly in light of the crash. They were putting the hammer down. Still, my legs were pretty sub-par and after carting some wheel-suckers around the course in pursuit of the two off the front, I relented.

After some time Patrick and Crosby caught those of us in the chase group and lapped us. The first I had seen of Brandon since lap one was us overtaking him. What I didn't know is that he was in pursuit of us and that Patrick and Crosby had pulled him the rest of the way to our group. We weren't absorbing him, I had missed his first attack past our group, he had caught us. Patrick, Crosby, and Brandon began rotating attacks, all of which were easily covered. After a spate of this we all decided it foolish to cover attacks coming from two riders who had lapped us and one whom we had lapped. We couldn't catch the two ahead and the one behind would probably never catch us. We let all three go.

After sprinting to seal up what I thought was a third place finish I was given the news that it was Brandon who had actually finished third. It was my turn to cook in the oven.

Who's Cooking in Hell's Kitchen?

I don't know who was, but whoever they were all they were serving was wup-ass. C'mon, seriously, 6, 8, 10, 12... up to 18% grades? Madness, pure madness. What's a guy to do in the face of such a beast? Oh yeah, you guessed it, break away.

The 3's field took off from the start line under overcast skies and high temps in the mid-forties. David, Philip, Blake, and I thought that driving 5-hours south would purchase us some better weather. We ended up bettering the local Kansas conditions solely by the absence of spitting rain, that's a 5-hours well spent. In light of the unexpectedly chilly conditions, the pack putted along at a leisurely 18mph pace, with no-one wanting to do a lick of work. Within 500m from the start Will from BMC/Wal-Mart attacked off the front and started opening a gap. Watching his lone figure gaining scarcely an advantage over the peloton I turned to another rider at the front and inquired about the attack. "Yeah, it's Will. He won it last year this same way," a local racer told me. That's all I needed to hear, there was no way a 5-hour trek to Arkansas was going to chalk up to a loss within the opening 15 minutes of the race. With a few good kicks I was at the front of the group and reeling in Will fast. Once we packed him in, the rest of his teammates, there were about 5 or 6 more in the peloton, began rotating attacks and blocking. "It's too early for this shit," I told a few other racers who were near the front, "don't let these guys block up the front, take pulls in rotation and disrupt their unity." It worked. With the solid mass of the BMC/Wal-Mart team broken into dispersed individual riders they lost all unity of purpose and quit the shenanigans.

The peloton was still antsy. Up the road somewhere loomed the "Hell's Kitchen climb." I had heard a lot about this climb in hear-say; and I admit, I scarcely believed any of it. We reached the left hand turn leading to the initial climb and I moved to the front, taking the hill at my own pace. Immediately a gap opened between myself and the pack. Mounting the initial section, which pitched somewhere between 8-10%, the climb leveled out and took a quick dip before it rose again. "Holy shit," I remember thinking. This climb was the real deal. With a growing gap between me and the pack I hit the final climb with a good amount of speed and maintained 13mph on its initial slope. Taking quick deliberate breaths I fell into a climbing rhythm. As one leg pressed down its counterpart pulled forcibly up on the opposite pedal, my shoulders rocked as my arms pulled on the bike's hoods; the whole motion resulted in a rhythmic swinging of momentum, left to right, with my hips rocking in complimentarily opposite directions. Taking a quick look back I could see a line of chasers, in pursuit. A couple of hundred meters past the summit of the Hell's Kitchen climb four riders bridged to me, the break was set, it was on.

The five of us, two OKC Velo riders, Kent from Bike Shack, and a Snapple rider, had been away from mile 10 until now. All that remained in our path was a third bout against the Hell's Kitchen climb and the finishing few kilometers. I was beginning to feel the miles, and the previous two climbs. Near the summit of Hell's Kitchen the hill began to crack me, I began to flounder. Before we reached the climb I overheard one of the OKC Velo guys tell his teammate to attack. I knew he was going to make his move on the final ascent. When he saw me flounder he gave it his all. His attack didn't seem very impressive, I dug deep and sprinted the final meters to the crest of the climb and pursued the OKC rider and Kent. Catching them, the OKC guys started rotating attacks. I wasn't going to work for these guys and help pull them to the finish. I sat in. Either we'd get caught by a chase group or stay away until the finish, but I wasn't going to an ounce of work for these two dudes who were unabashedly trying to beat our break into submission.

Coming down the final descent to the finish, the end was in sight. Kent pulled up next to me and said, "hey, I'm pretty cooked, I'll lead you out." I should have known better, he was cooked, I was cooked, and the remaining competitors would have my wheel if I took his. I did it anyhow and after a few moments he pulled off leaving me sitting at the front of a four man paceline. "Shit," I thought. What to do now? Attack. I stood on the pedals and gave a final burst of speed at the 500m mark, I looked over my right shoulder, everyone and their mom had my wheel. "Goddammit." What was I doing? I sat up, I wasn't going to lead these guys out and that's just what I was doing. As soon as I relented the OKC guys attacked around me. I was done and I gave up too much speed, I couldn't catch their wheels. I finished 4th. Whatever.

I'll end my cat 3 career with a 5th, 1st, 2nd, 1st, and 4th place finishes. I just put in my upgrade request today. I'm sure the 1/2 cats are going to rock my world, but I'm ready for the next step towards the pro ranks. Bring on the pain.

All Things Numerical: Crash 5's, Cat 3's, and R5

I'm not going to say that I didn't see this coming. http://sandbaggerkc.blogspot.com/ I qualified cat 2, during my first season as a racer, last season.. and I crashed a few times in the process (four times, two were my own fault from pedal-striking at Tulsa and Springfield). This season, after considering the advice of my peers, I decided I would spend the first few weekends as a 3 and race local with my newly cat'ed up teammates. There isn't a cat 1/2 Spring Fling Crit, and like most everyone who commented on R5's blog already knows, the 1/2 field at the Dam Race is sparse. I have to admit it, yes, some may say that I am sandbagging and they might not be incorrect in saying so. I will say; however, that I didn't know I would be sandbagging before the season started, my form seemed on track during the pre-season, but in most of the races lately (with only muscle endurance intervals under my belt, anaerobic is in the process and power is yet to come) I feel like I can handle the competition unexpectedly well. That's a huge relief for me. Last season, being a neo-racer, I followed what could hardly be called a training program, which barely followed any sensible periodization plan. This pre-season I stressed over thoughts that I wouldn't be as fast as I wanted to be early on; sticking to a well-structured measured plan. Considering how I feel on the bike lately, let's just say that I'm pleasantly surprised that I can do what I can do now, and am eagerly awaiting the fruits of my training in the months to come. I do feel like I got off the hook easy with R5 though.. he's posted some pretty hilarious stuff about other racers. For example.. http://sandbaggerkc.blogspot.com/2010/02/double-baggin.html#comments or this one.. http://sandbaggerkc.blogspot.com/2010/02/buttrball-turkey.html. This guy's blog is definitely worth following.

So, for anyone who is wondering, I will be upgrading to 2 this season. As soon as collegiate gets underway this month, on the 21st, I will submit my request for a cat-up. I'm ready for the challenge of racing as a two and even more so for collegiate nationals in May.

In other news, what's up with the crash 5's this year? Roger Harrison's homepage says it all.. http://www.lanternerougekansas.com/ "Luis is being release from the Hospital on Tuesday, tomorrow!" I hadn't arrived at the Perry Dam on Sunday until after the massive cat-5 pile-up ended in broken forks, bent wheels, and an unconcious Luis being taken to the hospital by ambulance. Honestly this development didn't come as much of a surprise considering that there had been some pretty Bush League crashes at Spring Fling the day before. I'm in no way talking down cat-5 riders, but c'mon guys, pace yourselves. It's a little early in the season to be dealing with broken frames and hospital bills. As to the cause of these crashes, we can only speculate. A word of advice for the cat-5's; focus on riding a steady and solid race, don't try to be a hero. You only need a few mass-starts to cat up and if you move up before you can control your bike the peloton is going to hate you. Crashes do happen however, I was fortunate enough to stave off my first USAC spill until the Melon City Crit in Iowa when a rider went down in front of me.

All in all, cycling is an awesome sport. From the sandbaggers to the dudes who call out the sandbaggers, and from cat-5's learning to hold a line to cat-2's with aspirations of going pro, in my book, they're all great. I'm proud to say that I share a common bond with every cyclist in our passion for sport and as cyclists they all have my respect.

"Christian, this is the life. I don't think it can get any better than this."
"I know. I'm not sure what I was thinking when I took a year off."
"Yeah. What were you thinking?"
"I wasn't."

Introspections on Pre-Season, Early-Season, and Whatever Season You're Not Supposed to Be Winning In

It's February 12th. Your first race is late February or early March. 2 hours on the trainer 5 days a week has turned into 3 hours, 3 days a week, with a build and 2 hard efforts. Doing power intervals last year, in late December/January, you were fast come March; it was brilliant. But now, between cutting calories and sticking to a training regiment you don't feel fast. Pulling the pace-line at 24mph against a crosswind yesterday was torture. It didn't hurt so much as you felt weak. Like there wasn't any gas in the tank. Lunch and a Cliff Bar 10 minutes before training, isn't going to erase the deficit you've been subjecting your body to for over 2 weeks. Power to weight. It's all about your power output in proportion to your body-weight. You lost 6 lbs in the past two weeks. That's what you wanted, right? Heck, you're not supposed to be fast in February; that is, if you want to be in May. Stick to the plan, cut weight, and detach emotionally from your pre-goal results. Simple as that. Tomorrow is 3 hours and 15 minutes in the saddle. Nice easy pace, 18 average, don't kick higher than 20. You can do that right? Just detach emotionally from your training. Your stomach grumbles; feel like you've got a food craving? Detach emotionally from your dieting. Long training hours killing your social life? Detach emotionally from that. Down? Detach emotionally. Tired? Detach. Sore? Detach. Grumpy? Detach. Happy? Detach. Horny? Detach. Manic? Detach. Depressive? Detach. Cold outside? Detach. Out of milk? Detach. Transmission a piece of crap? Detach. Missing? Detach. The? Detach. Summer? Detach. Sun? Detach.... Detach... detach.

You know what? They never said when you were supposed to reattach.

Unleaded, Premium Unleaded, and PB&J

There comes a time in every man's life when he has to take a good look in the mirror and say, "goddamn, fatass, you need to get on a diet." A week ago I did just that. I had put it off for as long as I possibly could, because hey, I like food. The revelation came when I took a look at my training schedule and realized that I wasn't losing any weight, even while riding 3 hours a day, on the trainer, 3 times a week with build days to boot.

I didn't jump off the deep end and start adhering to the Adkins diet, which we all know is suicide for an athlete, but rather began monitoring my caloric intake. Finding that I was eating nigh on 600-700 calories of cereal a sitting and downing Chipotle burritos at random intervals (near my complete daily calorie intake), I grabbed that puppy by the horns and wrestled it into submission. Now I carefully measure, weigh, and proportion 90% of my week's intake; never straying too far from 2,250 calories a day (3,000+ calories on base days).

The system of measuring and weighing almost every morsel I eat is working great. It mirrors the control that one has over their weekly training goals, if they write their training plan down on a monthly calendar. Why is monitoring calories so important? Well, for an athlete trying to reach a weight goal it helps them first put into perspective what they should be eating. After that, because you're staying within a limit of daily calories, one isn't so apt to over-eat, but rather eat moderate proportions spaced throughout the day and especially before exercise. What I have found is that having my finger on the pulse of my caloric intake has gotten me to be more thoughtful of my energy consumption. When filling up your car you don't put peanut butter and jelly sandwiches down the tank! So why would load up on too many simple sugars, fatty pizza, and the like at inopportune times? Instead I eat sugars when I need them (when I wake up and immediately before exercise), I eat complex sugars and fats hours before exercise, and I load protein after exercise. Get a measuring cup, a scale that measures in grams, and read the nutritional info on the box or look it up online. Smart.

I mentioned earlier the subject of planning your training schedule. This is extremely helpful. Not only for the benefits in terms of periodizing for target races, but also not allowing yourself to shy from what you should be doing. It is important to listen to your body (over fatigue, etc.). You will feel tired some days more than others, and if you don't have a plan you might pull up shorter in your training than you would have otherwise. I have all my weekly training planned until my first target event in May (collegiate nationals). If I hadn't I wouldn't be 100% sure that I'd be hitting my fitness and conditioning goals on time.

Committing to a good plan of action is the first step, next is being thoroughly educated on the subject, and finally; executing your plan of action. The first step is a mental one, and I have to admit, it is hard to find resolution until after your first race season. Until one knows what they are working for and why, it is extremely difficult to set higher level goals within the context of what they don't know. However, it is still possible with guidance. The second step is educating oneself (which I actually did before I ever found solid resolve, I just rode hard 99% of the time). Training Techniques for Cyclists is an absolute must for cyclists in categories 5-3. Ben Hewitt's book gives you all the information to start an excellent training program and an understanding of the exercises you will be performing. He also supplies solid nutritional advice and the information you need to start a diet plan. Joe Friel's Cyclist's Training Bible is the next step to understanding one's training and is extremely in-depth. Do not read the Cyclist's Training Bible before you read Training Techniques for Cyclists and have a good foundation for your training and diet! There are those of you out there that think riding the Tour de France as their first race would be a good idea, you are wrong, the training bible is too much for rookies to handle. You have been warned.

For those champing at the bit to get dieting:
Current body weight (lbs.) X 15 = daily caloric intake to maintain weight
+10 calories/minute for each minute spent training on the bike (A MUST)
-500 calories/day from above calculated number to lose 1lb. a week (3,500 calories = 1lb of fat)

My daily diet plan:
200lbs. X 15 = 3,000 calories
- 750 calories = 2,250 calories/day (cut 1.5lbs/week)

Training days: 2,250 calories
+ 10 X 180 minutes (1,800 calories) = 4,050 calories/day

The Miles that Lie Ahead

"Joy is in the pavement beneath my machine, I am the miles behind my back." I remember thinking up that phrase over a year ago as I rode. It was a thought conjured up on a typical training ride on a familiar stretch of Manhattan highway. My desire was to sum up what cycling meant to me and I had been seeking the perfect phrase to express it. All of a sudden, there it was, smack dab in the middle of my mind. And it was perfect.

Cycling is unlike most sports I know and it is unlike any other I have ever competed within. I have felt pressure in baseball, exhaustion in American-football, and exhilaration in rugby, but I have only ever felt those sensations and more in cycling. Rugby did come close to the love I feel for cycling. Heck, taking a fire off the ruck and trucking two would-be-tacklers to dive into the tri-zone after a 60 meter run is pretty dang hard to beat. The daydreams I used to have of running the ball down the pitch dodging tacklers, and those of making text book tackles now have brothers and sisters in the visions I see of launching a massive attack and breaking free from the peloton.

In the first moments of the attack time stops, for a fraction of a second you are amongst the peloton standing rigid on your pedals. All the muscles in your body are straining; from your neck to your toes. Each muscle group pulls tight as your body fights the strain of sudden acceleration, first generating it and then following it. In this brief moment a member of the opposition might call out an alarm to the rest of the pack. His call is merely the gun in your ears as it signals your departure. After that, it is only the void. Where the sound of neighboring shifters clicking, wheels humming, and occasional chatter amongst racers once existed is now replaced by an incredible silence. Your breathing comes in your ears, noticeably affected by the present rush of adrenaline. Wind accompanies its rhythmic huffing as a low roar, the perfect ambiance to the tunnel you are racing down. You are, all at once, more minuscule by the great expanse that not only lies before you, but around and above. Along a track you race, out of the saddle, swinging the bike back and forth with sprinter's legs. You are tiny, alone, nervous. Thoughts abound. Can I make it? Is anyone chasing? How far is the group up the road? Do I have enough food, water? Your heart beats faster. Faster than it should from the exertion alone. It is the fuel you'll need for the moments ahead. The rush will give way and in its place will come pain.

"Joy is in the pavement beneath my machine." When the first part of that phrase came to me I didn't know anything about racing. The exhilaration and nervousness of competition were foreign to me. I did know; however, something about desire. Desire is the only thing that took a stocky wannabe to the hopeful that exists today. Desire is what fuels hope. It fuels me. The pavement is life. My machine is me. Joy is the journey.

"I am the miles behind my back." No matter where we go and who we become we could only have gotten there along the path we've trodden. The past may be bitter, even painful, but it exists in all of us. Be thankful for each and every experience you've had, you wouldn't be the same person without them. I can always find peace with who I am today by who I wish to be tomorrow. Hope is the expanse ahead and the opportunity to change.

I am the miles that lie ahead.