'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.
Monday, August 2, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
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.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
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.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
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.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
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.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
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."
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."
Friday, February 12, 2010
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.
You know what? They never said when you were supposed to reattach.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
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
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
Monday, January 4, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
It's Almost Time to Get Intense
Shortly before starting this post I noticed that Steve Tilford had updated his blog, he began by saying, "...I hate indoor riding." Spoken like a true cyclist indeed. I guess that makes me an untrue cyclist though. I like indoor riding and I've openly admitted to that fact many times. Ok, I guess I don't like-like indoor training, I simply appreciate it for what it is. I remember my first fall to winter training transition. It was ugly. I hated climbing on the trainer during cold days, I hated not feeling the wind rush past and I pedaled, and I hated the fact that I was confined to a solitary room. However, after last year's preseason and all the extensive indoor trainer work that I performed, my feelings changed. What really put the trainer into perspective for me was my first season of racing. After last season I began to know a little more about what I was pursuing; and in that regard, I knew where indoor training fell into place. Trainer work is merely a tool in the toolbox, it's not really riding at all. Instead of thinking of it as a substitution for riding, I now classified it in a category all its own. It is trainer work, nothing else. It's kind of like the girl you grew up to next door, though the promise of something else has lingered for years, she's only going to be a friend, so you should probably stop inviting her to John Mayer concerts.
With that said, it's good to mix it up as much as possible, and yes, I'm talking about cross-training. Coming from the traditionalist camp, which I admit I fall into more out of ignorance that sheer preference, cross-training is a tricky subject. Jogging, lifting, and riding different disciplines all seem pretty viable options. Though I have experience jogging (my max run distance was 5 miles.. ha ha) and lifting (I used to weight train) both are considerably alien when put into the context of cross-training for road. The worry with lifting is that muscle will be developed where it shouldn't and I'll gain extra, unnecessary, weight. Any additional weight gain to an already 200lb frame would be bad. My upper body is a trouble area, as I used to do extensive arm and chest conditioning. Gaining more muscle there and I would probably have to abandon road for the velodrome. Obviously I would be careful about jumping in the weight room; which brings us to jogging. Out of all my options for cross-training, jogging seems the most realistic. It is financially accessible, simplistic, and efficient. I've also heard that jogging builds joint strength. After experiencing tendinitis in my left knee this off-season, my hope is that jogging would help to strengthen it up. I'm no expert however. I guess you just start running in a direction and see where that takes you. Come to think of it, I might need a jogging partner.
January is drawing closer and with target races in late May it's almost time to get intense. The early pre-season (October-December) is for endurance and base building, but late pre-season (January-February) is for speed and power gains. 1-minute and 30 second intervals, speedwork, and hill repeats are all on the dockett. I'm getting excited for the trainer sessions where I'm howling in pain and fighting to hold my lunch down. I'm looking forward to it for the challenge it will bring and the payoff come spring. The ability to attack and attack.. and attack, the ability to crush your competition both physically and mentally, in a race, is absolutely exhilirating. Waiting in the pack for 30 miles and the opportune moment to strike, when finally it arises and you launch a minute-long attack leaving the peloton in the dust. The feelings of victory both personal and in the race are incredible. For the past few months, when sitting in contemplation of what is to come, my heartbeat rises and I get that nervous handtwitch of an adrenaline rush.
In the words of the Spartan King Leonidas, "Prepare for glory!" Ten-four good buddy. I'm getting ready.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zMGJP3b4rbg
With that said, it's good to mix it up as much as possible, and yes, I'm talking about cross-training. Coming from the traditionalist camp, which I admit I fall into more out of ignorance that sheer preference, cross-training is a tricky subject. Jogging, lifting, and riding different disciplines all seem pretty viable options. Though I have experience jogging (my max run distance was 5 miles.. ha ha) and lifting (I used to weight train) both are considerably alien when put into the context of cross-training for road. The worry with lifting is that muscle will be developed where it shouldn't and I'll gain extra, unnecessary, weight. Any additional weight gain to an already 200lb frame would be bad. My upper body is a trouble area, as I used to do extensive arm and chest conditioning. Gaining more muscle there and I would probably have to abandon road for the velodrome. Obviously I would be careful about jumping in the weight room; which brings us to jogging. Out of all my options for cross-training, jogging seems the most realistic. It is financially accessible, simplistic, and efficient. I've also heard that jogging builds joint strength. After experiencing tendinitis in my left knee this off-season, my hope is that jogging would help to strengthen it up. I'm no expert however. I guess you just start running in a direction and see where that takes you. Come to think of it, I might need a jogging partner.
January is drawing closer and with target races in late May it's almost time to get intense. The early pre-season (October-December) is for endurance and base building, but late pre-season (January-February) is for speed and power gains. 1-minute and 30 second intervals, speedwork, and hill repeats are all on the dockett. I'm getting excited for the trainer sessions where I'm howling in pain and fighting to hold my lunch down. I'm looking forward to it for the challenge it will bring and the payoff come spring. The ability to attack and attack.. and attack, the ability to crush your competition both physically and mentally, in a race, is absolutely exhilirating. Waiting in the pack for 30 miles and the opportune moment to strike, when finally it arises and you launch a minute-long attack leaving the peloton in the dust. The feelings of victory both personal and in the race are incredible. For the past few months, when sitting in contemplation of what is to come, my heartbeat rises and I get that nervous handtwitch of an adrenaline rush.
In the words of the Spartan King Leonidas, "Prepare for glory!" Ten-four good buddy. I'm getting ready.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zMGJP3b4rbg
Friday, October 23, 2009
Our old friend the interval
At the end of racing, from March to August, I was toast. Come September I hardly touched my bike, save for the once or twice-a-week easy ride, which may not have been such a bad thing. Between classes starting back up, David and I working our asses off to get the KU Club off to a good start, and a myriad of technical difficulties with my bikes, it all worked out. Now I've got two bikes, an early 80's steel frame/down tube shift Bianchi commuter and a 2008 Colavita/Sutter Home SL pro frame.. not too shabby. In the words of The Lonely Island crew, during my first ride on the SL I almost ... in my pants. The thing seemed to hum with power, simply riding it you could feel the craftsmanship that goes into a pro level frame. Coming in at a respectable 15 lbs., light, and stiff, it is a sweet ride. Married with Ritchey components and Sram gruppo it is definitely the best bike I've ever had.
If you were to ask anyone who is around me on a daily basis, they would all tell you the same thing, "his life is the KU club." It's true. I have been working with David since the beginning of the semester to literally build the club from the ground up. We've been working on a new constitution, new team logo, new sponsorship program, new officer structure, new club structure, new team structure, new event structure, new-member recruitment, a new advertising campaign.. the list goes on. In short we have taken the club from a club of 4 members with no culture or future prospects to a vibrant organization of 20 members, 6 officers, and a culture that is, simply put, "work hard, play hard, and have fun." David and I have had conversations where we tried to figure out how its all come together, having this success can only be the product of real, honest, hard work and the true intention to do something right. Better things are sure to come from KU cycling in the coming seasons.
But what about our old friend the interval? He's back. Our club meets Sunday and Wednesday nights for spin session in the sport club training room at the rec facility.. and what's on the menu those nights? You guessed it, intervals. It's early in the training season, mind you, so we're not killing it.. yet. Already David has taught a killer spin session that included one leg drills and 8-minute intervals, definitely one of my sweatiest training sessions. So far I've taught three spin sessions, a 1:1 3-minute intervals session of 12 reps , a 2 hour spin, and a 12 reps 3min-3osec descending intervals session. It's pretty awesome to pass on the love of cycling in all its forms, and to see the exhausted, but happy faces of my students after each session is the best. Not a single person has come to a spin session and regretted it, most, however; have thanked me after class was over for a good butt whippin'. That's really special, working with a group of passionate individuals that are willing to do the nitty gritty and get down to business, they'll definitely reap the rewards come spring.
If you were to ask anyone who is around me on a daily basis, they would all tell you the same thing, "his life is the KU club." It's true. I have been working with David since the beginning of the semester to literally build the club from the ground up. We've been working on a new constitution, new team logo, new sponsorship program, new officer structure, new club structure, new team structure, new event structure, new-member recruitment, a new advertising campaign.. the list goes on. In short we have taken the club from a club of 4 members with no culture or future prospects to a vibrant organization of 20 members, 6 officers, and a culture that is, simply put, "work hard, play hard, and have fun." David and I have had conversations where we tried to figure out how its all come together, having this success can only be the product of real, honest, hard work and the true intention to do something right. Better things are sure to come from KU cycling in the coming seasons.
But what about our old friend the interval? He's back. Our club meets Sunday and Wednesday nights for spin session in the sport club training room at the rec facility.. and what's on the menu those nights? You guessed it, intervals. It's early in the training season, mind you, so we're not killing it.. yet. Already David has taught a killer spin session that included one leg drills and 8-minute intervals, definitely one of my sweatiest training sessions. So far I've taught three spin sessions, a 1:1 3-minute intervals session of 12 reps , a 2 hour spin, and a 12 reps 3min-3osec descending intervals session. It's pretty awesome to pass on the love of cycling in all its forms, and to see the exhausted, but happy faces of my students after each session is the best. Not a single person has come to a spin session and regretted it, most, however; have thanked me after class was over for a good butt whippin'. That's really special, working with a group of passionate individuals that are willing to do the nitty gritty and get down to business, they'll definitely reap the rewards come spring.
Last Wednesday's spin class in the middle of descending intervals, they were feeling it.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The off season's over
This last season has been a very fruitful one for me. Collegiate North-Central B-cat road/crit champ, Kansas cat-3 road champ runner-up, second in the Missouri State cat-3 road champs, a top five finish in the cat-4 Joe Martin Stage Race, and a host of cat-5, 4, and 3 wins and podium finishes; all in my first season of racing. I know that I have been very fortunate to be a part of the KU Cycling and Team Colavita/Parisi Coffee teams. I have raced next to some of the best examples of class-act and character, in that of my teammates. I owe much of my success to them, and the support they've given me.
Ultimately, as every racer knows, their fate is in their own hands. The lonely miles put in on the road alone, the grueling hours spent during interval sessions, all the things that must be done when no one is watching. They're thankless, so why do we do it? Because they are the prerequisites to greatness come spring. It is truly the things you do when no one is watching that make a champion.
The off season's over.
Ultimately, as every racer knows, their fate is in their own hands. The lonely miles put in on the road alone, the grueling hours spent during interval sessions, all the things that must be done when no one is watching. They're thankless, so why do we do it? Because they are the prerequisites to greatness come spring. It is truly the things you do when no one is watching that make a champion.
The off season's over.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Bike Snob NYC Unmasked!
Our very own Steve V. is the one and only renowned cycling blogger Bikesnob NYC. From the beginning of Steve's postings on his TC/PC blog I noticed that his style of prose was impeccably close to that of BSNYC. Putting the baby to rest, I have amassed irrefutable proof of Steve's alter ego.
First is Steve's post from yesterday, notice his wording when describing America's healtcare system. He uses the uncommon adjective "labyrenthine."
Second is a post from Bikesnob NYC's blog last February. I used to frequent Snob's blog and find the fact that both Snob and Steve have a penchant for using "labyrinthine" a bit too ironic. Coupled with their incredibly sardonic style, the similarities between both bloggers is too great to be a coincidence. In summation: Steve V. = BSNYC.
I know. Shocking.
First is Steve's post from yesterday, notice his wording when describing America's healtcare system. He uses the uncommon adjective "labyrenthine."
Second is a post from Bikesnob NYC's blog last February. I used to frequent Snob's blog and find the fact that both Snob and Steve have a penchant for using "labyrinthine" a bit too ironic. Coupled with their incredibly sardonic style, the similarities between both bloggers is too great to be a coincidence. In summation: Steve V. = BSNYC.
I know. Shocking.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Tour of KC 2009
Friday June 26th:
This would be my first race back after a two week rest period. I had one thing going through my mind prior to the race, "guns up let's do this." During and after a rest period the mind and body are not quite in sync. The mind is earger, the mind is willing, but the body doesn't begin to approach the mind's level of intensity. All good training books describe levels of fitness as a line graph that increases, peaks, declines, troughs, rises again, and proceeds to a higher peak. The hardest thing of coming off of a peak fitness period is the memory of the peak itself. Your mind thinks that the body still has the razor edge it used to, it most definitely does not.
For the Longview Criterium Britton and I were careful to line up at the front of our field. From the gun the pace jacked up and the field turned into a paceline. Feeling mid-pack to be inadequate, I gunned my engines and raced to the front before turn one. Taking delight in my rested legs I led the group for a lap and a half at blazing speed. Near the halfway point of lap two the paceline behind me came around my left side and ramped up the pace. I struggled to match pace with the lead group and quickly drifted to the back. After a couple of laps of trying to hang on, and failing to recover from my previous effort, I fell off. Dropping back to a quarter of a lap behind the lead group, I began to recover and initiated a TT effort, I watched the field inch away from there. Deciding that justice for my stupidity would have to be self-administered, I stayed in the race for the remainder going as hard as I could. At the end I was busted up, ego bruised more than body.
Saturday June 27th:
It was business as usual. David and I got up around 10am and began planning our day pre-race. We decided on seeing the new Transformers movie and getting lunch asap. Massages sounded good too, so we were keeping that option on the back burner. As we were getting ready around 11am my stomach began to distend and I experienced sharp intestinal pains. It was kind of a joke at first, me explaining that I got gas pains from time to time, but that it would go away soon. 4 hours later it hadn't. Having downed the maximum limit of gas-x pills for a day, hours earlier, and failing to find any reprieve, we began to worry. Thoughts of appendicitis and ruptured spleens abounded. Thinking over the situation mom decided it best to drive me to the hospital. Two hours after that and having cpr done on my stomach I began to feel better.
Day recap:
1. didn't make it to lunch or a movie
2. experienced vomit inducing pain for 6 hours
3. nearly passed out at the hospital
4. was diagnosed with probable intestinal chloronic (necessitating surgery in serious circumstances)
5. watched Marley and Me with my mom and her husband Jim while recovering
6. missed the day's criterium
Summation: wtf, son-of-a-bitch
Sunday June 28th:
Yesterday was supposed to be redemption day, but considering the circumstances, today would have to do. Looking at my race record I realized that my last commendable criterium result was nigh on months ago, today I aimed to change that. Pedalling around pre-race with Britton, the legs felt decent. Taking Friday as a lesson I knew that my endurance was not what it once had been, hopefully my top end wasn't so diminished. Today's strategy would be to race with my head, since my legs weren't so willing. Waiting at the start line mom and Jim were there to cheer me on. Today would be the same as Friday, with my biggest supporter in attendance I wanted to pull out a great result. On top of that a dear friend of mine, Kristi Dillman and her boyfriend TK were coming to watch as well. Unexpectantly TK had brought his camcorder and had it trained on me each lap. The pressure was on, four people were watching that I wanted to impress and one had a machine capable of capturing undeniable evidence of my impending success or failure. Guns up let's do this.
Like most crits the pace was heavy. There were definitely some dudes racing that wanted to keep things moving. Knowing that my form wasn't good enough to contend with too many moves at the front I kept my position near middle of the pack. A few breaks went early in the race, but were always brought back. Near mid-race the group split and a lead six or so got off the front. Finding myself near the front of the chase and knowing that the break looked pretty strong, I moved to lead chase position and worked to reel them back in. In about half a lap I pulled the group back to the break and resumed my mid-pack sit in. At about this time Britton came up beside me and said, "be patient, everyone's getting tired." I believed him, and was thankful for the words of encouragement. As the laps wound down, they seemed longer than 1/2 a mile, I kept a watchful eye on the front, sizing up the competition and readying myself to spring if need be. Coming into the last lap, predictably, people started going nuts,both behind the barriers and in the peloton. For a reason unknown to me still, a racer to my right began merging onto my line. Riding in the gutter I had nowhere to go, but down on the concrete if he was going to continue. Putting my elbow out I fended him off as he tried to force me off the road. After a few moments of contact he twisted his handlebar and went down. Wtf. If you can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen I guess. From the crash I gunned it into turn one taking lead position, up the hill I rounded turn two with a rider in tow. He shouted, "let's go!" I looked back and saw a chasing paceline. I felt pretty cooked as he launched an attack around my right. He gapped me a bit before turn 3 and I used all my speed through the last two turns to make up ground. Coming up the finishing hill I laid down a good sprint, nearly closing the gap, but it wasn't enough for first. I'd take 2nd on TK's camera.
This would be my first race back after a two week rest period. I had one thing going through my mind prior to the race, "guns up let's do this." During and after a rest period the mind and body are not quite in sync. The mind is earger, the mind is willing, but the body doesn't begin to approach the mind's level of intensity. All good training books describe levels of fitness as a line graph that increases, peaks, declines, troughs, rises again, and proceeds to a higher peak. The hardest thing of coming off of a peak fitness period is the memory of the peak itself. Your mind thinks that the body still has the razor edge it used to, it most definitely does not.
For the Longview Criterium Britton and I were careful to line up at the front of our field. From the gun the pace jacked up and the field turned into a paceline. Feeling mid-pack to be inadequate, I gunned my engines and raced to the front before turn one. Taking delight in my rested legs I led the group for a lap and a half at blazing speed. Near the halfway point of lap two the paceline behind me came around my left side and ramped up the pace. I struggled to match pace with the lead group and quickly drifted to the back. After a couple of laps of trying to hang on, and failing to recover from my previous effort, I fell off. Dropping back to a quarter of a lap behind the lead group, I began to recover and initiated a TT effort, I watched the field inch away from there. Deciding that justice for my stupidity would have to be self-administered, I stayed in the race for the remainder going as hard as I could. At the end I was busted up, ego bruised more than body.
Saturday June 27th:
It was business as usual. David and I got up around 10am and began planning our day pre-race. We decided on seeing the new Transformers movie and getting lunch asap. Massages sounded good too, so we were keeping that option on the back burner. As we were getting ready around 11am my stomach began to distend and I experienced sharp intestinal pains. It was kind of a joke at first, me explaining that I got gas pains from time to time, but that it would go away soon. 4 hours later it hadn't. Having downed the maximum limit of gas-x pills for a day, hours earlier, and failing to find any reprieve, we began to worry. Thoughts of appendicitis and ruptured spleens abounded. Thinking over the situation mom decided it best to drive me to the hospital. Two hours after that and having cpr done on my stomach I began to feel better.
Day recap:
1. didn't make it to lunch or a movie
2. experienced vomit inducing pain for 6 hours
3. nearly passed out at the hospital
4. was diagnosed with probable intestinal chloronic (necessitating surgery in serious circumstances)
5. watched Marley and Me with my mom and her husband Jim while recovering
6. missed the day's criterium
Summation: wtf, son-of-a-bitch
Sunday June 28th:
Yesterday was supposed to be redemption day, but considering the circumstances, today would have to do. Looking at my race record I realized that my last commendable criterium result was nigh on months ago, today I aimed to change that. Pedalling around pre-race with Britton, the legs felt decent. Taking Friday as a lesson I knew that my endurance was not what it once had been, hopefully my top end wasn't so diminished. Today's strategy would be to race with my head, since my legs weren't so willing. Waiting at the start line mom and Jim were there to cheer me on. Today would be the same as Friday, with my biggest supporter in attendance I wanted to pull out a great result. On top of that a dear friend of mine, Kristi Dillman and her boyfriend TK were coming to watch as well. Unexpectantly TK had brought his camcorder and had it trained on me each lap. The pressure was on, four people were watching that I wanted to impress and one had a machine capable of capturing undeniable evidence of my impending success or failure. Guns up let's do this.
Like most crits the pace was heavy. There were definitely some dudes racing that wanted to keep things moving. Knowing that my form wasn't good enough to contend with too many moves at the front I kept my position near middle of the pack. A few breaks went early in the race, but were always brought back. Near mid-race the group split and a lead six or so got off the front. Finding myself near the front of the chase and knowing that the break looked pretty strong, I moved to lead chase position and worked to reel them back in. In about half a lap I pulled the group back to the break and resumed my mid-pack sit in. At about this time Britton came up beside me and said, "be patient, everyone's getting tired." I believed him, and was thankful for the words of encouragement. As the laps wound down, they seemed longer than 1/2 a mile, I kept a watchful eye on the front, sizing up the competition and readying myself to spring if need be. Coming into the last lap, predictably, people started going nuts,both behind the barriers and in the peloton. For a reason unknown to me still, a racer to my right began merging onto my line. Riding in the gutter I had nowhere to go, but down on the concrete if he was going to continue. Putting my elbow out I fended him off as he tried to force me off the road. After a few moments of contact he twisted his handlebar and went down. Wtf. If you can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen I guess. From the crash I gunned it into turn one taking lead position, up the hill I rounded turn two with a rider in tow. He shouted, "let's go!" I looked back and saw a chasing paceline. I felt pretty cooked as he launched an attack around my right. He gapped me a bit before turn 3 and I used all my speed through the last two turns to make up ground. Coming up the finishing hill I laid down a good sprint, nearly closing the gap, but it wasn't enough for first. I'd take 2nd on TK's camera.
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