'I read your blog post last week. When did you do that 100-mile ride? That's awesome!'
'Thanks man, I did it last year.'
'Oh. You're still writing about last year?'
A grin spans my face from cheek to cheek. I am because I'm still thinking about last year, I didn't reply.
Instead my answer comes out something like, 'people don't want to hear about me riding off the back at the Dam Race, so yeah.'
Ty's question is an honest one, and as I start my pre-race prep I roll it around in the back of my head with the consideration of an idle thumb. Like picking at a scab my attentions aren't making it any better, just keeping it fresh.
Why are you still writing about last year?
That's the question he meant to ask. At the time I didn't have an honest answer for him, so what he got in return was deadpan.
Flick. Flick. Flick.
I'm sitting with Britton at the start-line, shooting idle shit, feeling slightly cool in a position of prominence on the line. All four of us 1/2 racers are being consolidated with the three's field and we're sitting at the head of the waiting pack. We laugh light-heartedly as we share a casual joke, the three's behind us are crouched in tense anticipation.
That has something to do with why I'm writing about last year.
Flick. Flick. Flick.
The pack takes off, Britton goes on a flyer from the gun.
God he's got some good fitness this year.
He's holding the gap steady as Andy and Mario take point to pull him back.
Flick.
I'm working to ride wheels, just to keep up. "Me a year ago" would put "me now" to shame. It's funny, I didn't know how fast I was then, always measuring myself up to guys like Tilford and Jensen. By comparison they're superhumans, the fact that I was able to keep up at all was a miracle. I didn't even know it.
Flick.
"Me a year ago" wanted to go pro and nothing else. He started his training regimen in November, put in 4-hour days everyday, and lived like a monk. I'm not the person I was the year before. Things change, people change, I flew close to the sun.
Flick.
I've been riding pack for four laps out of seven now. Andy and Mario have been at the front trying to keep Britton under control. They're doing so just. Britton is amazing, the guy keeps going: taking pulls, making attacks, riding at the front. He fills me with pride, and I want to do his efforts justice.
Can something be the same once it's changed?
No. I know it can't. Still, I want to be doing what Britton is doing now. The freedom of the attack, the exhilaration of inflicting pain; concepts I know well. I've neglected my constant companion, however, and for the moment they are feats I can't perform.
Flick.
Two years ago I rode at the front of a race for two consecutive laps, having just come off a rest period the week before. My mind was at another level that my body was not. On the third lap I got dropped from the pack, my tattered illusions fluttering from my back.
Coming to the final climb I'm resolved to make good on my self-promise to honor the work Britton has been doing all day. At the base I attack, it's violent. I know I dropped everyone, I just know it. Slowly a shadow rides itself to my back wheel. Who is that? Mario? Unbelievable, no one should have been able to follow that attack. To boot, he has Andy in tow. My head is somewhere my body isn't. I'm not who I was the year before.
I drop myself.
Flick.
'You know Cavendish is having a hard time even finishing a race?'
My shirt's off and Spencer and I are musing over the day's race next to his friend's car.
I let out a laugh, 'at least I have something in common with someone.'
'Ha, yeah. You're in good company.'
I'm still thumbing that thought in the back of my head. I can't be who I was the year before, but it's a part of who I am. There's a lesson there for the unknown that lies ahead.
I stop flicking it and pull off the scab. With a thoughtful gaze I look down at those remnants.
'Let's get out of here,' I say dusting off my hands.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Constant Companion
How long has it been? I forget. Time is a concept that has ceased to exist.
I lost myself long ago to the rhythmic flow of the peloton, gliding through corners at 28mph, reshuffling riders from the front to the back; the hum of wheels, the clicking of shifters.
Like waking from a fever dream reality seeps back, leaving a faint impression of the experiences that have come to pass, but without depth, terribly incomplete. It's a shock to find oneself suddenly riding amongst one-hundred other riders, to be part of a machine that carries hundreds of tons of force, to feel the burden of processing the inconceivable in fractions of seconds.
There's a reason why my brain fell back to the comforts of muscle memory.
. . .
How long had I been perceiving the drone of my wheels, the hissing wind, the cadence of my pedal stroke and instantly filing those sensations away? As my awareness returns the immensity of my task does as well. 110 miles. It's the longest ride I've ever done, and at a 21mph average pace it's taking its toll.
Hours before I left the rolling hills of Lawrence for my hometown. Desolate country roads have gifted views of farmers' fields and abandoned oil rigs, under the open invitation of pristine sunshine and a clear-blue sky. Each hill encountered has been pounded down by sure-footed pedal strokes, hands held in a close aero grip, shoulders moving only a fraction.
The sensation of transferring power into a pedal, powering a stroke, pulling a chain, spinning a cog, rotating a wheel, propelling a bike, is intoxicating. It lulled me into a trance, and for that period of time there was no distinction between machine and man.
. . .
Pain is my constant companion. Like a good friend she is true, giving back what was given to her in earnest. Turn your back on her and avoid her, and she will spurn you with a woman's contempt. For months now I have been cultivating our friendship, meeting with her almost every single day, all in anticipation for this moment.
As with anyone, however, her company can wear itself thin. Exactly as it is now.
Coming back to my senses the immensity of her burden begins to be felt for its full weight. I've kept her company for far too long. Sitting mid-pack I look over the heads and shoulders of my competitors, over the glow of street lamps, and the din of the crowd's voices at a high-rise office building on the Tulsa skyline.
What am I doing?
It's a simple question, though it has become more pressing as of late. Looking up at that building, racing down the finishing straight, heading for another lap, I can't help but wonder.
This is insane. What mentally stable person does this? I should be up in a building like that, working, holding an internship. My god, I'm a 23-year-old-literature-undergraduate-racing-a-bike. What am I doing?
. . .
I'm rounding the 90th mile of my ride, my average speed still holding steady, legs thundering, riding with my constant companion. She likes it best when she's allowed to express herself, that's how you cultivate her friendship.
She's starting to make herself heard.
I'm finally quitting the rolling hills and the long climbs, and I'll finish criterium style on a 1/2 mile course with two right-turns and a blip of a hill at the end. 40 laps to go.
. . .
The pace is becoming frantic. People are taking risks, some of which are carrying dire consequences. Amongst the sweat-stained jerseys of the peloton are those that carry the marks of calamity, the grass-stained, blood-stained, ripped, and torn.
I ditched my bottles a few laps ago. They were empty and I couldn't rationalize the extra burden of their weight. In a situation so extreme no variable can go overlooked, not a couple of extra grams, not a momentary hesitation, or a nervous squeeze of a brake lever. A crash goes on the inside corner of turn seven. It cleaves the field in half, sparing only those in front of it, claiming those behind.
I jerk hard right to avoid the press of bodies and squeeze both brake levers to their maximum. As I make contact with the roadside curb I allow my grip to relax on my handle bars. The momentum of my front wheel is instantly arrested, the rear continues its journey impetuously, somersaulting impatiently over its twin. I ride its bucking stride as it carries me over my handlebars, tucking my shoulder into a roll.
I will be one of the blood-stained.
. . .
20 laps to go.
I still carry the scars of all my crashes before. They sink weirdly into the divots surrounding my knees, an odd purplish red color. Some fade, some refuse to go away, those opened time and time again. Such concern isn't now a concern of mine. She makes sure her voice is the only voice I hear and that her thoughts are mine. I can thank her for that, for all of her attention there's no time to fear a tire losing purchase or a pedal clipping.
It's part of keeping her happy and fostering our friendship.
. . .
I could have sworn the official skipped me in the pit for check in. In the rush to rejoin the race he missed me, just walked right on by. I'm surrounded by riders, but I'm not really here. I'll finish 26th out of one-hundred and ten, but I won't finish.
Such concerns aren't mine. For now there is the next man, and the next man, and the next.
. . .
One-hundred and nine-and-a-half miles, the final turn, I'm surrounded by riders. They're all reflections of me, my ambitions, my fears, my strengths, my weaknesses. They're phantoms of who I might face, but my only real opponent, myself.
Gritting my teeth against the pain, I ignore the screaming voice in my head, standing into a sprint.
. . .
Overhead the outline of that office building looms, I'm out of the saddle, teeth gritted, a silent scream in my throat. Amongst dozens of competitors I'm alone. I cross the finish line.
. . .
A gasp of exasperation marks the end of my ride. For all of it I'm alone. There is no crowd, no competitors, no sky-line, just me, the road, and my constant companion.
I lost myself long ago to the rhythmic flow of the peloton, gliding through corners at 28mph, reshuffling riders from the front to the back; the hum of wheels, the clicking of shifters.
Like waking from a fever dream reality seeps back, leaving a faint impression of the experiences that have come to pass, but without depth, terribly incomplete. It's a shock to find oneself suddenly riding amongst one-hundred other riders, to be part of a machine that carries hundreds of tons of force, to feel the burden of processing the inconceivable in fractions of seconds.
There's a reason why my brain fell back to the comforts of muscle memory.
. . .
How long had I been perceiving the drone of my wheels, the hissing wind, the cadence of my pedal stroke and instantly filing those sensations away? As my awareness returns the immensity of my task does as well. 110 miles. It's the longest ride I've ever done, and at a 21mph average pace it's taking its toll.
Hours before I left the rolling hills of Lawrence for my hometown. Desolate country roads have gifted views of farmers' fields and abandoned oil rigs, under the open invitation of pristine sunshine and a clear-blue sky. Each hill encountered has been pounded down by sure-footed pedal strokes, hands held in a close aero grip, shoulders moving only a fraction.
The sensation of transferring power into a pedal, powering a stroke, pulling a chain, spinning a cog, rotating a wheel, propelling a bike, is intoxicating. It lulled me into a trance, and for that period of time there was no distinction between machine and man.
. . .
Pain is my constant companion. Like a good friend she is true, giving back what was given to her in earnest. Turn your back on her and avoid her, and she will spurn you with a woman's contempt. For months now I have been cultivating our friendship, meeting with her almost every single day, all in anticipation for this moment.
As with anyone, however, her company can wear itself thin. Exactly as it is now.
Coming back to my senses the immensity of her burden begins to be felt for its full weight. I've kept her company for far too long. Sitting mid-pack I look over the heads and shoulders of my competitors, over the glow of street lamps, and the din of the crowd's voices at a high-rise office building on the Tulsa skyline.
What am I doing?
It's a simple question, though it has become more pressing as of late. Looking up at that building, racing down the finishing straight, heading for another lap, I can't help but wonder.
This is insane. What mentally stable person does this? I should be up in a building like that, working, holding an internship. My god, I'm a 23-year-old-literature-undergraduate-racing-a-bike. What am I doing?
. . .
I'm rounding the 90th mile of my ride, my average speed still holding steady, legs thundering, riding with my constant companion. She likes it best when she's allowed to express herself, that's how you cultivate her friendship.
She's starting to make herself heard.
I'm finally quitting the rolling hills and the long climbs, and I'll finish criterium style on a 1/2 mile course with two right-turns and a blip of a hill at the end. 40 laps to go.
. . .
The pace is becoming frantic. People are taking risks, some of which are carrying dire consequences. Amongst the sweat-stained jerseys of the peloton are those that carry the marks of calamity, the grass-stained, blood-stained, ripped, and torn.
I ditched my bottles a few laps ago. They were empty and I couldn't rationalize the extra burden of their weight. In a situation so extreme no variable can go overlooked, not a couple of extra grams, not a momentary hesitation, or a nervous squeeze of a brake lever. A crash goes on the inside corner of turn seven. It cleaves the field in half, sparing only those in front of it, claiming those behind.
I jerk hard right to avoid the press of bodies and squeeze both brake levers to their maximum. As I make contact with the roadside curb I allow my grip to relax on my handle bars. The momentum of my front wheel is instantly arrested, the rear continues its journey impetuously, somersaulting impatiently over its twin. I ride its bucking stride as it carries me over my handlebars, tucking my shoulder into a roll.
I will be one of the blood-stained.
. . .
20 laps to go.
I still carry the scars of all my crashes before. They sink weirdly into the divots surrounding my knees, an odd purplish red color. Some fade, some refuse to go away, those opened time and time again. Such concern isn't now a concern of mine. She makes sure her voice is the only voice I hear and that her thoughts are mine. I can thank her for that, for all of her attention there's no time to fear a tire losing purchase or a pedal clipping.
It's part of keeping her happy and fostering our friendship.
. . .
I could have sworn the official skipped me in the pit for check in. In the rush to rejoin the race he missed me, just walked right on by. I'm surrounded by riders, but I'm not really here. I'll finish 26th out of one-hundred and ten, but I won't finish.
Such concerns aren't mine. For now there is the next man, and the next man, and the next.
. . .
One-hundred and nine-and-a-half miles, the final turn, I'm surrounded by riders. They're all reflections of me, my ambitions, my fears, my strengths, my weaknesses. They're phantoms of who I might face, but my only real opponent, myself.
Gritting my teeth against the pain, I ignore the screaming voice in my head, standing into a sprint.
. . .
Overhead the outline of that office building looms, I'm out of the saddle, teeth gritted, a silent scream in my throat. Amongst dozens of competitors I'm alone. I cross the finish line.
. . .
A gasp of exasperation marks the end of my ride. For all of it I'm alone. There is no crowd, no competitors, no sky-line, just me, the road, and my constant companion.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The Fox and the Hound
A racer is either a fox or a hound; he is either chased or else chases. In each and every bicycle race there is only one fox and there are many hounds. Without exception, the fox always wins.
May 17th wasn't anything like the year before. As I toed the line, the gloomy grey sky looming overhead, threatening to drizzle, was in stark contrast to the crystal clear blue skies of the previous year. Exactly one year ago I ended my category 4 career here as the fox. With a mixture of admiration and envy I watched as my betters in the sport, Stolte and Tilford, claimed the top prizes in the 1/2's. At that moment, watching them, I had it in my mind that in 12 months I would stand amongst them and I would be in their shoes.
But May 17th wasn't anything like the year before. As a light mist trickled down from low hung clouds I sat two rows back at the start-line trying to hide a shiver and the anxiety welling up in my gut. Jensen and Tilford were both out today, which I knew I could expect, and so were a slew of Mercy riders. However, there were two variables I hadn't counted on: first, a rider unknown to me, and decked out in Bahati kit had joined the race, and second, only 16 racers registered for the 1/2/3's.
Unlike its previous edition, where the top three categories were consolidated into an impromptu, and tragically so, combined race, the organizers this year had allocated a contest exclusively for the 3's and then another open to those 3 and up. I had expected more of the lower category racers to be daring and grasp the opportunity to ride next to a living legend. In that I was wrong, they knew what would be in store if they raced up. Last year should have been all the proof I needed to dispel such a notion.
. . .
On that May day in 2009 myself and two Specs riders rounded the final turn leading to the finish when we caught the latter half of the combined field. Weary faces had greeted us, they were the battered remnants of the surviving 3's.
From the gun, Tilford and his cronies had picked the field apart with relentless attacks, which sent many off the back and allowed only the strongest to follow. The short of it was that the combined race failed tragically.
. . .
Crouched at the start-line, surrounded only by the hardened gazes and stoicism of seasoned pros, I took stock of my competition: an ex-continental man, a current continental pro, a five-time world champ, a European cyclocrosser, and some of the best local talent the region could muster. It was immediately apparent that in a field of this small size and exceptional talent there was going to be nowhere to hide. Today a racer would live and die on the alter of his own skill.
Catching sight of my old pal Kent Woermann I cracked a wry smile. He had been the only cat 3 with the cajones to race up. I could have kissed him for it.
Kent had been my first competition a year ago, when I launched the first attack of my career and shattered the field. He was the only one strong enough to give chase. The guy had, and still does, a big heart and a level head. Sitting at the starting-line he didn't look a bit out of place in a crowd of big-shots. I was hoping I looked the same.
I snapped to as Whittaker droned out the preliminaries. With each word the count-down ticked off and the tension mounted. It was all I could do to keep my hands from twitching while my heart pounded out a furious beat. A deep breath. Exhale.
'Racers, get set. Go!'
The surge from the line was incredible. Feet clicked into pedals with loud snaps and chains yanked taught fighting to keep up with the rapid demands of their riders. Immediately a single-file paceline emerged and set a brisk tempo. The peloton responded in kind, welling up behind and engulfing the leaders, switching the front from one rider wide to two. The pecking order panned out, sending the strong to the front and the green to the back.
I looked around and caught a glimpse of Britton at the the front and was instantly reminded of the surety of his presence. We had raced a great deal together in the last half of the previous season. Britton had the astonishing ability to appear out of nowhere, lend his assistance, and then fade back into the fold without so much as a word. At the 2009 edition of Tour of KC, Britton simply appeared next to me in the peloton.
. . .
'How's it going?' He asked.
'I'm getting a little spent, but ok,' I offered back.
'Good. Everyone's getting tired, just hang in there.' And with that he was gone. I didn't see him before that in the race and I didn't see him until after. He had appeared exactly at that moment I was ready to give in to exhaustion to lend his encouragement. His camaraderie gave me back the little edge I needed and I went on to take 2nd in that race.
. . .
And there he was at the front, chasing breaks and looking out for his team; the sight of it filled me with a familiar confidence. I wouldn't let him down.
Though the race wasn't ten-minutes old, things were getting pretty hot. Attack after attack blistered off the front, prompting snap accelerations from the group; stretching out the pack to a single-file chase before momentum was arrested and racers piled back into a three wide formation.
Jensen was the next to go. Everyone knows he's a player, and I'm the first to jump.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.. catch. I make contact with his rear wheel and he looks back at me nonplussed. He's just getting started. The rest of the group comes charging after with the speed of an oncoming train. When they catch us it's a virtual standstill. That's how it goes: sprint, stop, sprint, stop. After the catch, no one's willing to go out on a limb and make the next jump.
Mills dribbles off the front. It's a ploy, I know it. The pack just lets him go, it's almost surreal. One lone rider gaining inches on the pack. He's within reach, but everyone is holding their breath, letting him go. It's like watching a car come at you from two blocks away, slowly and steadily, until it runs you down. Completely avoidable, and yet irresistible.
Tilford jumps. His is a real attack. With loping pedal strokes he leaps to the shoulder and sprints the distance to Mills, now up the road. Between the two of them there's a real chance now. Mercy is represented and, of late, so is Tradewind, which means neither team will chase.
I move to the front and take point and feign like I'm going to ride them back. If that's what my competitors thought, then the were wrong. I waited. And I waited. And waited.
30 seconds spanned the gap. The two riders up ahead were beginning to look like specks.
I've done this maneuverer many times before; riding to the front, taking point, settling in to a rhythm, and then attacking up the gutter.
With a sudden jerk I stood in my pedals, the chain slapped taught, and my rear wheel skipped a fraction of an inch. Lunging from my point position on the yellow line to the far edge of the shoulder, I lept into an all out sprint.
The seconds ticked down in my head as the figures of Tilford and Mills got bigger and bigger.
'Bridger!' I yelled in warning as I made my approach. Without even a glance back the two ahead upped the pace a fraction, ensuring I would make contact and they could benefit from my momentum. Making contact I settled onto Tilford's wheel as Mills set the pace at the front of our small group. Taking a quick glance back I saw the peloton in chase, led by a lone Nebraska rider. He wouldn't get much help, the three strongest teams already had representation in the break and they weren't about to pull their teammates back. Instead they would sit on his wheel see if he could close the gap, if not, then they'd let him flounder. And he did.
'We've got a gap!' I yelled. With that news our speed jumped from 26 to 30 miles-per-hour, and our escape began in earnest.
Steve would go on to describe the breakaway as almost Zen-like.
'I usually don't get that in a local race,' he said afterwards, 'usually when I jump everyone chases.'
I understood exactly what he meant. For the first lap and a half, we blazed down the road at 30mph. The effort of it was as surreal as it was satisfying. Before us the wind broke and the hills yielded. Power coursed through my legs that made tires sing on the pavement. The three of us were a dynamo force on the road that defied any element; it was us versus the forces of nature and the limits of our bodies, and both offered little resistance.
Still, there were wolves in our midst. Three things had been temporarily abated which I would have to pay for in kind: I was a headstrong rookie, Mills was cunning, and Tilford was head and shoulders above the rest of us.
Even at the age of 50, Steve Tilford did what none of us could. He already laid claim to five world championships, multiple national titles, and more victories than there are days on the calendar. He was a cycling demi-god who walked around in street clothes and lived next door in Topeka. He almost had me fooled. He almost had me fooled into thinking that I stood the slightest chance of outfoxing him.
Steve Tilford, among other things, is a man of honor. In our break he put forth his fair share of work, and never for a minute dogged a turn or pedaled soft. To do so was far beneath a rider of his stature.
Mills on the other hand was different. From the outset he played the game, and where Tilford almost had me fooled, he succeeded hand over fist in pulling the wool over my eyes. Many years my senior in the cycling ranks, Adam is a consummate gamesmen. Anything that he lacks in strength he will make up for in cunning. And that is precisely what he did.
From the outset Mills played it cool, he belied his strength and feigned disinterest in the break. He teased us, saying that he wanted to turn back and ride easy in the group. When it was his turn to pull, our speed would drop a fraction. I took his acting as a show of weakness, and believed that he was holding on just.
I was wrong.
Nearing the final hill palpable tension descended on our breakaway. Mills missed a pull, and from that I knew the game had started in earnest. Our pace began to drop dangerously low as each man held his cards tight. To go to the front made one vulnerable to attack, but to flounder and wait jeopardized the whole breakaway. I was in the top three and I would be damned if we were caught 10-miles from the finish.
Going to the front I set a moderate 18mph pace, trying to keep up our advance, but not wanting to expend the slightest amount of excess energy. Tilford recognized the gesture and began to trade pulls, bringing the final twin slopes implacably closer. The attack would happen there, I knew it. We began to mount the first slope and nothing came.
Would it?
Halfway up and still nothing.
Tiflord moved to the front.
Would he?
With a lurch he put his full strength into the pedals, opening a gap between Mills. Adam reacted, but the acceleration was too much and I struggled to keep his wheel. We made contact before the base of the second climb. Tilford went again.
My already cramping legs were now screaming. It was all I could do to heave my weight into my pedals and close the gap on Mills. Ahead of him Tilford was making good on his escape, and for the moment, it looked like he would succeed.
Catching Adam's wheel I waited a few breaths and then launched a counter-attack of my own on the right side. Closing on Tilford I was astonished to feel Mills on my wheel.
How had he done it? A moment before he looked like he was broken. He was cunning indeed. Knowing full well that he didn't stand a chance against Tilford, Mills allowed me to catch him and then piggy backed me as I chased Steve.
'Jesus Steve, is that necessary?' I gasped after I made contact.
'I've gotta try,' he smiled back, fresh-faced.
And he did. With that, Tilford launched another attack. Almost as if in slow-mo, he stood on his pedals in his distinct loping sprint. His bike wobbled lazily back and forth for an eternity as I held my breath. I willed his bike not move.
The second time I caught him, there were no jokes or wry smiles, just gasps for air. Steve even seemed to be a little phased by his flurry of assaults. The air hung thick, each of us reshuffling their cards, looking for an edge.
Mills launched the next attack.
He had the strength left to attack? The extent of my underestimation looked me in the face damningly. I looked back at it with a mixture of shock and grief. My opportunity to dethrone a legend and ascend to ranks of cycling nobility was quickly falling away. After I had caught Tilford's last few attacks I felt that I stood at least a chance of holding him. Now that Mills had added his salvo, that dream was dashed. I couldn't cover the strength of two men.
As Mills attacked, I cracked. Tilford caught his wheel and they made good their escape, leaving me in their wake. Fighting against calf and quad cramps, I struggled simply to turn my pedals, let alone muster a rally.
'Get it together Matt,' I told myself, 'you can do it.'
Gritting my teeth I stood in a sprint and gave what little left I had. The 'whoosh whoosh' of my carbon wheels sounded loudly against the headwind, and both Tilford and Mills looked back to see me coming. Their gaze shifted from looking at me to each other. With silent agreement they put their heads down and sped away.
I was done. It was all I could do to hobble the rest of the way to the finish line and claim third-place. Even standing amongst my family and teammates, the debilitating muscle cramps had me wanting to collapse to the ground. Not 20 feet away stood those giants I envied still. Stiff legged, I held my head high and shook the hand of my idol for the first time.
Today he was the fox and I the hound.
May 17th wasn't anything like the year before. As I toed the line, the gloomy grey sky looming overhead, threatening to drizzle, was in stark contrast to the crystal clear blue skies of the previous year. Exactly one year ago I ended my category 4 career here as the fox. With a mixture of admiration and envy I watched as my betters in the sport, Stolte and Tilford, claimed the top prizes in the 1/2's. At that moment, watching them, I had it in my mind that in 12 months I would stand amongst them and I would be in their shoes.
But May 17th wasn't anything like the year before. As a light mist trickled down from low hung clouds I sat two rows back at the start-line trying to hide a shiver and the anxiety welling up in my gut. Jensen and Tilford were both out today, which I knew I could expect, and so were a slew of Mercy riders. However, there were two variables I hadn't counted on: first, a rider unknown to me, and decked out in Bahati kit had joined the race, and second, only 16 racers registered for the 1/2/3's.
Unlike its previous edition, where the top three categories were consolidated into an impromptu, and tragically so, combined race, the organizers this year had allocated a contest exclusively for the 3's and then another open to those 3 and up. I had expected more of the lower category racers to be daring and grasp the opportunity to ride next to a living legend. In that I was wrong, they knew what would be in store if they raced up. Last year should have been all the proof I needed to dispel such a notion.
. . .
On that May day in 2009 myself and two Specs riders rounded the final turn leading to the finish when we caught the latter half of the combined field. Weary faces had greeted us, they were the battered remnants of the surviving 3's.
From the gun, Tilford and his cronies had picked the field apart with relentless attacks, which sent many off the back and allowed only the strongest to follow. The short of it was that the combined race failed tragically.
. . .
Crouched at the start-line, surrounded only by the hardened gazes and stoicism of seasoned pros, I took stock of my competition: an ex-continental man, a current continental pro, a five-time world champ, a European cyclocrosser, and some of the best local talent the region could muster. It was immediately apparent that in a field of this small size and exceptional talent there was going to be nowhere to hide. Today a racer would live and die on the alter of his own skill.
Catching sight of my old pal Kent Woermann I cracked a wry smile. He had been the only cat 3 with the cajones to race up. I could have kissed him for it.
Kent had been my first competition a year ago, when I launched the first attack of my career and shattered the field. He was the only one strong enough to give chase. The guy had, and still does, a big heart and a level head. Sitting at the starting-line he didn't look a bit out of place in a crowd of big-shots. I was hoping I looked the same.
I snapped to as Whittaker droned out the preliminaries. With each word the count-down ticked off and the tension mounted. It was all I could do to keep my hands from twitching while my heart pounded out a furious beat. A deep breath. Exhale.
'Racers, get set. Go!'
The surge from the line was incredible. Feet clicked into pedals with loud snaps and chains yanked taught fighting to keep up with the rapid demands of their riders. Immediately a single-file paceline emerged and set a brisk tempo. The peloton responded in kind, welling up behind and engulfing the leaders, switching the front from one rider wide to two. The pecking order panned out, sending the strong to the front and the green to the back.
I looked around and caught a glimpse of Britton at the the front and was instantly reminded of the surety of his presence. We had raced a great deal together in the last half of the previous season. Britton had the astonishing ability to appear out of nowhere, lend his assistance, and then fade back into the fold without so much as a word. At the 2009 edition of Tour of KC, Britton simply appeared next to me in the peloton.
. . .
'How's it going?' He asked.
'I'm getting a little spent, but ok,' I offered back.
'Good. Everyone's getting tired, just hang in there.' And with that he was gone. I didn't see him before that in the race and I didn't see him until after. He had appeared exactly at that moment I was ready to give in to exhaustion to lend his encouragement. His camaraderie gave me back the little edge I needed and I went on to take 2nd in that race.
. . .
And there he was at the front, chasing breaks and looking out for his team; the sight of it filled me with a familiar confidence. I wouldn't let him down.
Though the race wasn't ten-minutes old, things were getting pretty hot. Attack after attack blistered off the front, prompting snap accelerations from the group; stretching out the pack to a single-file chase before momentum was arrested and racers piled back into a three wide formation.
Jensen was the next to go. Everyone knows he's a player, and I'm the first to jump.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.. catch. I make contact with his rear wheel and he looks back at me nonplussed. He's just getting started. The rest of the group comes charging after with the speed of an oncoming train. When they catch us it's a virtual standstill. That's how it goes: sprint, stop, sprint, stop. After the catch, no one's willing to go out on a limb and make the next jump.
Mills dribbles off the front. It's a ploy, I know it. The pack just lets him go, it's almost surreal. One lone rider gaining inches on the pack. He's within reach, but everyone is holding their breath, letting him go. It's like watching a car come at you from two blocks away, slowly and steadily, until it runs you down. Completely avoidable, and yet irresistible.
Tilford jumps. His is a real attack. With loping pedal strokes he leaps to the shoulder and sprints the distance to Mills, now up the road. Between the two of them there's a real chance now. Mercy is represented and, of late, so is Tradewind, which means neither team will chase.
I move to the front and take point and feign like I'm going to ride them back. If that's what my competitors thought, then the were wrong. I waited. And I waited. And waited.
30 seconds spanned the gap. The two riders up ahead were beginning to look like specks.
I've done this maneuverer many times before; riding to the front, taking point, settling in to a rhythm, and then attacking up the gutter.
With a sudden jerk I stood in my pedals, the chain slapped taught, and my rear wheel skipped a fraction of an inch. Lunging from my point position on the yellow line to the far edge of the shoulder, I lept into an all out sprint.
The seconds ticked down in my head as the figures of Tilford and Mills got bigger and bigger.
'Bridger!' I yelled in warning as I made my approach. Without even a glance back the two ahead upped the pace a fraction, ensuring I would make contact and they could benefit from my momentum. Making contact I settled onto Tilford's wheel as Mills set the pace at the front of our small group. Taking a quick glance back I saw the peloton in chase, led by a lone Nebraska rider. He wouldn't get much help, the three strongest teams already had representation in the break and they weren't about to pull their teammates back. Instead they would sit on his wheel see if he could close the gap, if not, then they'd let him flounder. And he did.
'We've got a gap!' I yelled. With that news our speed jumped from 26 to 30 miles-per-hour, and our escape began in earnest.
Steve would go on to describe the breakaway as almost Zen-like.
'I usually don't get that in a local race,' he said afterwards, 'usually when I jump everyone chases.'
I understood exactly what he meant. For the first lap and a half, we blazed down the road at 30mph. The effort of it was as surreal as it was satisfying. Before us the wind broke and the hills yielded. Power coursed through my legs that made tires sing on the pavement. The three of us were a dynamo force on the road that defied any element; it was us versus the forces of nature and the limits of our bodies, and both offered little resistance.
Still, there were wolves in our midst. Three things had been temporarily abated which I would have to pay for in kind: I was a headstrong rookie, Mills was cunning, and Tilford was head and shoulders above the rest of us.
Even at the age of 50, Steve Tilford did what none of us could. He already laid claim to five world championships, multiple national titles, and more victories than there are days on the calendar. He was a cycling demi-god who walked around in street clothes and lived next door in Topeka. He almost had me fooled. He almost had me fooled into thinking that I stood the slightest chance of outfoxing him.
Steve Tilford, among other things, is a man of honor. In our break he put forth his fair share of work, and never for a minute dogged a turn or pedaled soft. To do so was far beneath a rider of his stature.
Mills on the other hand was different. From the outset he played the game, and where Tilford almost had me fooled, he succeeded hand over fist in pulling the wool over my eyes. Many years my senior in the cycling ranks, Adam is a consummate gamesmen. Anything that he lacks in strength he will make up for in cunning. And that is precisely what he did.
From the outset Mills played it cool, he belied his strength and feigned disinterest in the break. He teased us, saying that he wanted to turn back and ride easy in the group. When it was his turn to pull, our speed would drop a fraction. I took his acting as a show of weakness, and believed that he was holding on just.
I was wrong.
Nearing the final hill palpable tension descended on our breakaway. Mills missed a pull, and from that I knew the game had started in earnest. Our pace began to drop dangerously low as each man held his cards tight. To go to the front made one vulnerable to attack, but to flounder and wait jeopardized the whole breakaway. I was in the top three and I would be damned if we were caught 10-miles from the finish.
Going to the front I set a moderate 18mph pace, trying to keep up our advance, but not wanting to expend the slightest amount of excess energy. Tilford recognized the gesture and began to trade pulls, bringing the final twin slopes implacably closer. The attack would happen there, I knew it. We began to mount the first slope and nothing came.
Would it?
Halfway up and still nothing.
Tiflord moved to the front.
Would he?
With a lurch he put his full strength into the pedals, opening a gap between Mills. Adam reacted, but the acceleration was too much and I struggled to keep his wheel. We made contact before the base of the second climb. Tilford went again.
My already cramping legs were now screaming. It was all I could do to heave my weight into my pedals and close the gap on Mills. Ahead of him Tilford was making good on his escape, and for the moment, it looked like he would succeed.
Catching Adam's wheel I waited a few breaths and then launched a counter-attack of my own on the right side. Closing on Tilford I was astonished to feel Mills on my wheel.
How had he done it? A moment before he looked like he was broken. He was cunning indeed. Knowing full well that he didn't stand a chance against Tilford, Mills allowed me to catch him and then piggy backed me as I chased Steve.
'Jesus Steve, is that necessary?' I gasped after I made contact.
'I've gotta try,' he smiled back, fresh-faced.
And he did. With that, Tilford launched another attack. Almost as if in slow-mo, he stood on his pedals in his distinct loping sprint. His bike wobbled lazily back and forth for an eternity as I held my breath. I willed his bike not move.
The second time I caught him, there were no jokes or wry smiles, just gasps for air. Steve even seemed to be a little phased by his flurry of assaults. The air hung thick, each of us reshuffling their cards, looking for an edge.
Mills launched the next attack.
He had the strength left to attack? The extent of my underestimation looked me in the face damningly. I looked back at it with a mixture of shock and grief. My opportunity to dethrone a legend and ascend to ranks of cycling nobility was quickly falling away. After I had caught Tilford's last few attacks I felt that I stood at least a chance of holding him. Now that Mills had added his salvo, that dream was dashed. I couldn't cover the strength of two men.
As Mills attacked, I cracked. Tilford caught his wheel and they made good their escape, leaving me in their wake. Fighting against calf and quad cramps, I struggled simply to turn my pedals, let alone muster a rally.
'Get it together Matt,' I told myself, 'you can do it.'
Gritting my teeth I stood in a sprint and gave what little left I had. The 'whoosh whoosh' of my carbon wheels sounded loudly against the headwind, and both Tilford and Mills looked back to see me coming. Their gaze shifted from looking at me to each other. With silent agreement they put their heads down and sped away.
I was done. It was all I could do to hobble the rest of the way to the finish line and claim third-place. Even standing amongst my family and teammates, the debilitating muscle cramps had me wanting to collapse to the ground. Not 20 feet away stood those giants I envied still. Stiff legged, I held my head high and shook the hand of my idol for the first time.
Today he was the fox and I the hound.
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