It was Tuesday night again and I was hoping for a good night of racing for a change. I’m starting to feel like a big complainer—every time I start to feel like things are coming around, I tank the night. My legs just weren’t there, I was, I don’t know where they were.
I warmed up adequately and got a couple of jumps up to speed in my warm up gear. I spun up easily, accelerating effortlessly off the banking. Hitting turn three I threw a second acceleration in and exited turn four feeling pretty damn good. Maybe I’ll have a better night tonight, I thought.
I was geared a little high last week, so I geared down a few inches, to 92. The writing was on the wall by the first lap of the first race. I could hang on, but the changes in tempo were difficult to go with… no snap in my legs.
I guess I shouldn’t complain, really. I haven’t been doing any specific track training. But then again, I didn’t do anything specific last year either. I think it’s time to start racing twice a week, jumping in with the masters on Saturdays to get a little more work on getting my track legs back. We’ll see how it goes.
Alright, I just got back from the supermarket and I have get this off my chest. I know there is some rule for women about wearing white, Memorial Day and Labor Day—at least I think there is, I’m too annoyed to go look it up. Let me be perfectly clear, there is no time that is appropriate for men to wear open toed footwear.
Sandals, flip-flops, whatever—don’t do it.
Men go and get proper shoes because they do, well they do man stuff. Men do not have pretty feet, they have feet I don’t want to see. You shouldn’t either.
For the sake of clarity, men should not wear open toed footwear:
to the supermarket
to the office
to the bar
to the mall
to a picnic
to the beach (wear shoes and then take them off, be a man damn it)
to the pool (see “to the beach”)
when riding a bicycle
when riding a motorcycle (you just girlie-fied that whole Harley image)
If you insist on wearing them, do us all a favor. Go get a pedicure and put your skirt on.
This is long overdue. A couple of months ago I participated in a 125 mile race put on by guys that make some high zoot cycling kit. The crew at Rapha have a notion that more or less, suffering, passion, effort and human will are the corner stones of satisfaction and accomplishment. While I hadn’t considered it that way, I tend to agree.
So, with this in mind, Rapha invited a handful of teams to participate in a Gentleman’s Race in New Paltz, New York. It was billed as an unsanctioned, unmarshalled event. No support, few rules, 3 checkpoints, and oh, the whole team has to finish together. It’s a 125 mile team time trial.
I wouldn’t have known anything about the event, except for the fact that I work for the same company that publishes Bicycling magazine and my buddy Cush over there, got the call. Then I got the email, and with that I was in. It would be my longest race ever, my longest ride ever… but not the most time spent in the saddle, oddly enough, but that’s another story.
The course promised a good bit of climbing and gravel roads. I selected an appropriate set of tires, talc’d my tubes, went over my light wheels, and made sure I hade everything squared away well in advance. I downloaded to course to my Garmin 305. I stocked up on Gu, Honey Stingers and Sport Legs. I tried to ramp up the hours on weekends. Basically, I did everything I reasonably could to prepare.
Plans were set, reservations were made and with one week to go we were ready. And then one rider dropped out. Not to worry, we have a deep well to draw from in our cycling community and a replacement was found. Harlan, a mountain bike pro who finished fourth in La Ruta de los Conquistadores, a stage race across Costa Rica. Sweet, things are looking up.
It was T minus four days and counting. I had my first track race of the season on Tuesday night—not a big deal, I was just going to sit in let my legs roll with it. Race one, lap four, I get caught in a crash. I’m banged up, but not too bad—one guy goes to the hospital. My bike is finished, but I hop on my road bike to spin it off.
The next morning it’s apparent that I’m in worse shape than I thought and I have to roll off the bed to get my feet to the floor. The ribs on my right side are torqued and lifting, pushing and breathing all produce unique sensations, all equally painful. The Gentleman’s Race looks doubtful and I talk to Cush about finding a replacement, but since he knows I’m still riding, he figures it’ll be ok. Me, I’m concerned.
We’re supposed to leave late Saturday afternoon and stay overnight in New Paltz so we can have a leisurely race morning. When I arrive at our muster point, there is a lethargic haze hanging over the group. Everyone is lounging around, no one is packing up their cars. As I walk up I ask “What’s up?”
“We’re waiting for Aaron”
“Aaron?”
“Yeah, Joao is out.”
“What?!”
“He was hit by a car this morning, he sent a picture to prove it.”
“So, where is Aaron?”
“With his girlfriend.”
“So, when is he getting here?”
“Soon.”
This was effing beautiful. In the two hours before we were to meet we’d lost a rider, and found another. Another pro mountain biker, U-23, who is set to leave for Europe in four days to participate in a USA cycling training camp. So the team now has 3 pro mountain bikers: Harlan, Cush and Aaron, one NORBA national champ: Yozell, a top 25 finisher at the IronMan world championships: Selene, The Fit Chick and… me.
I knew I’d be the weakest link before the crash, now I’m going to give new meaning to the term team “anchor”. This is not going to be good. While I’m stewing over the situation I’ve got myself into, Aaron finally shows up and we’re off. The ride is uneventful, we don’t lose any more riders along the way, and we arrive with enough time to get to sleep at a reasonable hour.
In the morning we head out to the house Rapha rented, it has become race headquarters, start and finish. The Rapha boys are directing traffic, with twelve teams of six there are a lot of cars, parked on the lawn, in the backyard and up and down the street. Cyclists half kitted up, tall and lean, short and lean—ghostly white, except for their arms—are milling about. We get to readying ourselves, get cue sheets and start times. We’ll go off in four waves, 15 minutes apart. The race is handicapped and we’ve been seeded based on some formula, in the third wave with 2 other teams.
Our time comes and we get the pre-race talk. Watch out for the metal bridge around mile 25, the gravel road, there is no support, we’re on open roads, and so on. And there are the three checkpoints which are less about preventing cheaters and more about making sure no one gets left out to die in the sun.
We start out the drive at the appointed time and 3 teams become one, taking up a double paceline at a comfortable tempo. I’m thinking “this is okay” but, right now we’re slowly descending. When we hit the first uphill my heart rate skyrockets into the red and I have a hard time catching my breath, and then it’s my turn to pull. This is bad, we haven’t even hit the climbing yet, just ten miles in and I’m almost blown. I pull off and tell Cush that my self appointed job today is to stay off the front, hide and try not to cost the team too much time.
For a while I float in the group, strategically using changes in pace, turns and intersections to slip back and avoid the front. But then, the group slowly stops working well together and I’m stuck in the middle of an accordion, with the pace going up and down. It must’ve been annoying Cush too, because he rolls up and says “c’mon, we’re going.” Crap, I’m not sure which would be worse “going” or suffering the choppy pace in the group. He’s sent Selene to the front and she is stringing it out… and I am hurting.
Sometimes I notice the trees, or the view, or a brook. But mostly, I notice the pain. At times like this I go find my “unhappy place”, and dig in. My mantra? “you suck, you suck, you suck” kind of like the sound of a chain straining against a flailing pedal stoke in the big ring. “You suck, you suck, you suck”. I don’t want to suck, but I do. And that drives me on in an attempt to disprove myself. I don’t know, it works for me. Suffering, works for me.
The first climb is the hardest and I reluctantly wind my way back and forth across the road. In the steep sections I can barely turn the pedals over. The team rides away from me, but that’s ok, I don’t need them here soft pedaling, reminding me how slow I’m going. My ribs ache, and there isn’t much advantage to getting out of the saddle because I just can’t pull on the bars that hard.
image “borrowed” from the Rapha site
The first check point is about three quarters of the way up the climb, and my team is waiting for me there. Refill bottles, add sports drink powder, try not to fall over, take more Sport Legs… how am I going to finish this? Leaving the check point it begins, on steepest climbs my teammates take to pushing me. I don’t like it, but I don’t protest. I lose count somewhere after 14 pushes…
After that climb, the miles fly by. Well, maybe not fly by, but suddenly it was mile 80. Now there’s only forty odd miles left and it seems like I’ll make it. We’ve settled into a brisk tempo that is rudely interrupted by a flat, on my bike. Crap, crap, crap. Despite a pretty quick change, a team rolls by. Crap, crap, crap. When we start rolling I’m able jump back into the rotation for a bit, buoyed by a shot of frustration and anger which lasts for about an hour, or until we hit the last climb. This time, I’m not alone. Cush is dehydrated and cramping. So, the team is split now nursing me and Cush up the last hill, with a team ahead, in sight. We close on them for a bit, and then the gap between us starts to widen…
At the top is the third check point, which we wave off. I slow, looking longingly at the water jugs lined up on the tailgate of a pick up, and then at my bottles, thinking this is not a good idea. It wasn’t. Cush continued to cramp, we split up what water we have, and we continue to chase the team just ahead, the one we can no longer see. At least I didn’t suffer alone those last ten miles.
We didn’t catch the team, but we finished together. Our total time was around 6 hours 20 minutes, and we averaged 21mph for our actual ride time which earned us fourth place. It was beautiful, not in the traditional sense for me, but in the sense Rapha intended. I was not happy, but I was happy I finished. Some remarked about beauty of the view, the mountains, the area in general. I honestly don’t remember much of it clearly, I was riding a different race, had a different experience. The hours of suffering were worth the achievement of finishing my longest ride, my longest race when I physically had difficulty even lifting my bike. Rapha did not disappoint, they set the stage for an epic event and that’s what they delivered. They also delivered dozens of pizzas and beer to top it all off.
Indeed, thank you gentlemen.
All the while we were riding, a crew was driving around capturing the day on video. You can view their fine work below.
