I’ve been busy, plain and simple. Busy racing, busy at work and busy with a new project.
The long story…
Almost two weeks ago was the Mercer Cup USGP cross race. I spent the week prior getting the camper ready for two consecutive days of racing. A week out the weather looked great, until a little mid-week hiccup of rain lasted three days.
Mud, that’s all you need to know. Day one: I wasn’t feeling too peppy and didn’t register early enough so I started from the back. I actually had a pretty good first lap and by the end pushed my way into the low twenties—not where I had hoped to be, but it wasn’t a bad ride. Day two: It actually stated to dry out a little. By a little I mean it was thickening up in places and a line was starting to wear in. I had roughly the same start position, but I was able to get a good first lap. And then I kept my momentum up, passing people right up to the finish. Twentieth, if I had registered earlier and started a couple rows up, I might have made the top ten.
We camped at the venue with Ryan of Flanders and company, so the rest of the weekend was spent heckling riders. Ryan Trebon has the misfortune of a name close enough to “Rusty Trombone” that heckling him became a whole other form of sport. Add some beer and you’ve got non-stop hilarity—what more could you want? Apparently the answer to that question is “a midget, a racist grade school teacher and a coke dealing prostitute on probation.” Again, that’s all you need to know.
Running the mud at Spring Mountain
The week prior to that was race number four in the PACX series: Spring Mountain. I got the call up and a front row start which was perfect. An easy start slotting fourth at the first turn. The race went well and I controlled things as best I could. A few guys passed me up in one of the fast sections, but then I snaked some inside lines in the tight turns, put some power to the pedals and put some distance on them. I ended up third which I was pretty happy with.
I took this past weekend off racing. Saturday off the bike altogether, and Sunday rode out to the derby for sixty miles. Crap, the derby wrecked me. The longest ride I had done for the last three weeks was a little less than thirty miles. No rest for the weary, though… I got home and finished up the yard work for the season, picking up all the leaves. Which brings me to my new project.
I’ve spent a lot of time doing research the past couple of weeks. The end result after a couple hours work on Sunday night? A proto-type product that I’m not quite ready to share with the world yet. I’m pretty excited about it though. It seems to work pretty well and I think people will want to but it. In a couple weeks I should be ready to unveil it here. So check back, if you’re a cyclist training this winter, you might be interested.
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.
