Racing - 2013 CCNS Kermis, Cat 3s

A true week of racing - Sunday, Tuesday, then Friday. If I could do this all the time I would - maybe a Thursday race, to space things out properly before the weekend. Whatever, the fact is that I got to line up for my third race this week.

I got here as early as possible and helped with registration. When the Masters started I got to leave and prep for my own race. My one hour prep went something like this:

5:05 PM I leave registration and find the Missus. She asks if I've eaten. I haven't. She asks what I want. I want to support the vendors so I ask for a hotdog or something. She gets a steak sandwich - I inhale 3/4 of it before she reminds me that I'll be racing in what would be 45 minutes now.

5:15 I help with a victim with light road rash, a Junior that has been in the scene for much longer than you'd think. I brought my first aid supplies to the race so I could help him out with Tegaderm. The cheap stuff I forgot about, and I was out of the First Aid spray.

5:30 My socializing time quickly running out, I started getting my bike ready, my spare bike ready, pinned my number, kitted up, and got out there with less than 2 laps of the Masters race left. I took pictures of the break and chase finishing then put down the camera to go warm up (and missed the field sprint). Fortunately for me we got to do one lap of the course so that was my warm up.

FIVE Expo riders.

We lined up with a total of six Expo riders. Stan would be our default leader, the break guy. SOC and myself were sort of random guys, and Mark, Ted, and Joel would pitch in when they could. Joel was coming off of a non-racing period so he wasn't expecting much. We were all eager to support Stan who's proven to us over and over that he can make the break.

First time around the 180.

We should be 15 feet to the left.

On the first lap we almost went off the course through the cones to the right. A bit of grumbling and we were all back on track. Late apexes are great and all but it's important to turn in early enough for a 180 that dumps out to a narrow road.

Joel responds.

When the first attack went I was near the front but feeling a bit crispy from the effort out of the 180. I started wondering if one of us should go when Joel went rocketing by. We wouldn't link up with the eventual three man group until the 180.

Vicki.

On Tuesday the Central Wheel women made it a point to show up and race. Like me a few of them came off at some point but they gamely got back in and gritted it out. One rider I didn't see at the back was Vicki, a former Expo rider. We're all still supportive of her and I was pleasantly surprised to see her in the midst of the field, totally holding her own. As I've only really seen her in the B races on Tuesdays it was a huge step to be active in a Cat 3 race.

Rider slides his rear tire out.

The first few times around the 180 the corner caught out the unaware, the ones pushing the limits, and the ones simply not used to turning so hard. At least two riders slid their rear tire out, one actually unclipping mid-turn. To his credit he was clipped in and riding ahead of me long before I exited that same corner.

The break opposite us.

The 180 gave us a good point of reference as far as the break went. We could see them riding the opposite direction as we approached the 180.

I usually tend to go the outside line in turns, preferring to maintain speed over doing more bike handling type stuff inside. However the 180 was tight enough that everyone ended up a bit outside at the exit and I never got to fully utilize the outside line.

Therefore I decided that if I remembered I'd try to go inside one of these laps, to see how that went.

Ted raises his hand.

I'm actually really disappointed that you can't see the smoke around his chainstay. I'm pretty sure that his tire was rubbing and it was rubbing hard enough that it started to smoke.

Inside line!

Finally, with a couple laps to go, I managed to go inside. It was much better overall. I could turn as hard as I wanted to turn, to the point where I could feel the front tire start to lose traction, the feel of pushing the rubber across the asphalt. With my forward oriented position I could plant the front tire however I wanted. The short chainstays kept the rear planted, and I could accelerate fine out of the turn.

 I decided that this would be my approach for the finale.

Moving up the inside.

Approaching the 180 for the last time I debated going on my own. A CF Racing Junior decided for me as he made the move first. I jumped on his wheel and we both looked around, waiting for the counter-swarm. Only one other rider came by, a Bethel Cycle rider (I think a Junior as well). The two went wide, holding more of an outside line.

I went inside.

Inside line, hard.

 I didn't accelerate too hard so I could get back on their wheel. I'd contemplated going from the 180, trying to go for the line, but it's over a mile and not very realistic. Instead I hoped to back-slot into the front of the field and fight it out from there.

I made one elemental error, one that decided my race for me.

The head of the field comes up the right side.

The final straight started out with a left side crosswind, turning into a pure headwind. I had to be on the right side going into the final straight. My mistake was staying left on the course at two turns to go. Instead of having the field pass me on the left they passed me on the right. This put me in the wind and therefore I was out of the sprint long before it ever started.

It didn't keep me from trying to get to the right but the guy to my right fought hard to stay on the wheel. I fought honorably, with no contact, but the fight was doomed from the beginning. Ultimately I ended up sheltering him from the wind for a couple hundred meters, giving him a lead out. I didn't have the chance to turn around or even look down so I don't know if I could have back-slotted in a few spots back. It's too late now but this is one of those things I'll file away for the next time I'll need it.

To my happy surprise SOC rocketed by the right.

While I berated myself for getting into a tactically untenable position, SOC absolutely blasted by on the right. Riding super low he jumped where he normally does on Tuesday Nights. He knew the sprint - he's won the A Race on one Tuesday - so he treated the sprint like he did on a Tuesday. Although two guys fought hard he beat them and the rest of the field to take the sprint for 7th.

When I rode up to SOC he had a big grin on his face. Last Sunday he was just behind me going into the M35+ sprint but he sat up because "all the places were up the road". He ended up 44th; I nabbed 12th. We talked about it and the takeaway was that if the field is doing a sprint you might as well sprint. It's good race practice, it's fun, you can test tactics, and you can see how you do against the others. Well tonight he did great - he went at the perfect time for his strengths, he moved up based on his experience in the this and last year's race, and he executed flawlessly. If and when it comes down to a field sprint he'll have this experience to draw from when he approaches said sprint.

Stan, it ended up, took 5th in the break. A rider went solo, two guys were close for second and third, and the rest of the break finished just behind.

I have no idea how I finished except it was "at the back".

With the light falling during the P123 race I had to leave, unable to partake in the various festivities along the finishing straight. A fun race for sure, and one I plan on doing next year.

Just better.

Helmet Cam - 2012 CCNS Kermis, Aug 24

This year I got to do a few new races, at least to me. I count any course I haven't done more than once or twice to be new to me. It's different from doing the races at New Britain, for example, where I have some fond memories of doing the course up to eight days a year for the last 30 years.

Relative to a once-or-twice race is refreshing to say the least. It's fun to see a new course, a new tactical map, a new corner or four.

One event, the White Plains Crit, was a race I'd never done before, and for two pretty good reasons - it was the National Championships the first time it happened and the second time it happened it was the Empire State Games aka the NY Crit Championships.

Another one was the CCNS Kermis. The host team and promoters, CCNS, took a seemingly lighthearted approach to the whole race. On race day though it was a lot more serious than I expected - big signs marking the course, light trailers for the last race, vendor tents, and the fun atmosphere I expected. The race itself didn't necessarily go well for me but it was absolutely the best course I've raced for eons.

Actually I can't think of a more fun course.

Okay, I can think of courses that suit me better (Bethel anyone?), ones that were more difficult technically (a Tarrytown NY crit comes to mind as well as a one year Norwich CT crit), and which have more elevation changes or more turns.

In terms of a real fun course though this one takes the cake. The only thing is that it's flat so the climber-types won't like it. Otherwise it gives opportunities to the rouleurs (time trial types) and sprinters both, punishes poor cornering and poor fitness, and makes for an honest finishing order.

The second CCNS Kermis is set to take place on August 23, 2013. Until then you can use this clip to preview the course if you missed it last year. If you did it then you know what I'm talking about - let this hold you over until the kermis.

Enjoy.

Racing - Aug 24, 2012 CCNS Kermis Cat 3

Ever since CCNS announced they'd be holding a kermis race at Rentschler Field I wanted to do the race. I've done the real thing before, but only in races where I was way, way, way over my head. A kermis differs from a typical criterium in a few ways:

1. Longer course. In Belgium a kermis typically went around a 5-7 km course, or 3-4 miles. The CCNS kermis would do a 1.6 mile loop, so a good compromise between a crit and a semi-unmanageable circuit.

2. Longer straights. A Belgian kermis might have 5 or 6 turns in 5-7 km. This meant a lot of fast riding between the turns. In a crit there are some courses where you can barely take a few pedal strokes before hitting the next turn. In a kermis you bang the throttle to the floor, hold it there, and ease off just before everything blows up.

3. Narrow roads. A Belgian kermis would start and finish in a town setting but usually meandered into single lane farm roads next to fields and pastures.

A real Belgian kermis (I spelled it "kermesse" in my posts).

Yes, that's a hairnet on the 4th rider in the picture.

4. If you fall 3 minutes behind you get pulled. In my first real kermis I got unceremoniously yanked in one lap. My maximum speed was over 70 kph that day, on a flat course. For us Americans that translates to about 44 mph. And I got shelled so bad they pulled me.

5. In northern Belgium the courses tended to be flat with a decent amount of wind. You almost always end up in some kind of a crosswind situation. There's a reason the Belgians and Dutch are so good at holding position in massive crosswinds - they grew up racing like that.

The CCNS course seemed to me to be a great compromise between the races I normally do and what I'd call a "kermis". The longer course was fine, okay, but it also had some extended straights. In fact, in those 1.6 miles, I'd consider there to be only four real turns - a left at the end of the start/finish stretch, a U turn at the far end of the course, and a quick right-left leading into the finishing bit of road.

It also had some narrow, one lane roads. Well, technically they're bike paths, but they're brand new, they're a lane wide, and we'd follow them for a bit. Significantly the U-turn preceded the narrow roads so positioning could be critical for that section of the course.

Rentschler Field normally has a good amount of wind, just like the low lands of the Benelux countries. This would add proper feel to the race.

I took on additional responsibility for the race - I'd be doing the finish line camera stuff, picking numbers. With two helpers to take my place during the Cat 3 race (which I wanted to do), my biggest worry was dealing with the late finish of the P123 race. I expected it to finish at about 8 PM, by which time it'd be quite dark.

After a poor test on Thursday, where I couldn't pick out any numbers using a 100w flood light, I called in the reinforcements and showed up with 1700w worth of lights - a 500w light I already had and a new set of 1200w lights.

Jeff setting up 1200w of lights.

I figured the first three races would be fine, the last one would be tricky. The promoter had a light trailer thing too, one of those trailers with a generator inside and a tall pole with four lights. It certainly beat my 1700w setup but it sat too far from the line to offer significant help.

The first races went well. The promoter had decent fields, the races seemed quite interesting, and even in the Cat 4-5 race there were some serious attempts to break away from the field.

The kermis formula seemed to be working.

Like a springtime Bethel I got changed and ready to race while doing camera stuff. I knew I wouldn't have a warm up but with the long straights and a reasonable field I thought I'd be okay. After a lap or two I'd be plenty warmed up.

I lined up with the 3s with three teammates - SOC, Joel, and Mike. The latter was back from school - I hadn't raced with him since 2010, with maybe a Rent thrown in there. Joel and SOC were both riding well so we had a good group.

Personally I had no expectations. I'd take getting shelled but I'd also take being in contention.

We started off normally, no "at the gun" attacks. However, for the first few laps, two guys from the same team set a strong pace, one strong enough that no one wanted to dispute it. In fact, on the second lap, I'd moved up, and found myself a couple wheels behind one of the teammates. He resembled Cancellara (at least in my oxygen deprived state) and so that's what I labeled him.

"Cancellara" examining the damage.

I'm suffering at third wheel and we're strung out single file.

This is my view of the shot above. I'm not on the wheel and taking a lot of wind.

Heavy D, the photog, is on the right edge of the picture above.

The other teammate was more of a Ryder Hesjedal, tall and lanky, and he'd do some huge turns at the front too. He rolled up to the front before the hairpin at the back end of the course.

"Ryder" hitting the front, "Cancellara" sitting two wheels back.

With the two guys pulling like mad the first three laps went by very quickly. After my stint near the front I realized pretty quickly that if they kept up this pace and I tried to stay up there, well, frankly, I'd get shelled.

I drifted back.

The other Expo boys made moves, Mike making enough moves to count for the whole team. We didn't have a plan for the day - I was too focused on the finish line stuff to worry about racing stuff. I wish we worked together a bit because we'd have done better had we combined our strengths to get one rider up there.

Mike and SOC both made efforts in the last lap. I turned down assistance from Mike because I felt like I may not be there; in retrospect I think working for him or SOC would have been more productive than just riding.

Joel hung out near me during the race. He said a few things to me but I couldn't respond as I was absolutely redlined.

Each time we went by the start finish area I'd look over at Lance and Jeff (they were helping) in case they had looks of panic on their face. None, so that was good, and the Missus also looked pretty calm.

I kept racing.

With a 1.6 mile lap and the smallish field I figured I could wait until the last lap, push really hard just before the hairpin, and battle it out in the top 6 or so (i.e. from about 6th).

When we started down the corridor to the hairpin the pace went up, as expected.

What I didn't expect was a total lack of desire to push. I sat in the middle of the group, boxed in, and stayed there. I made no attempt to move out, no attempt to shoot through any gaps.

I just sat there.

We got around the hairpin safely and the front guys really punched it, stringing out the group.

I sort of started thinking about moving up, especially when SOC rocketed up the side, but I felt almost disconnected from my legs. I was thinking all sorts of tactical stuff but my legs were going just hard enough to keep me in the field.

Last real corner before the finish, about 500m away.

I made it through the last real corner, a left, then a right bend, and realized the front of the field was basically out of reach. I sat up, my brain accepting my legs' preference.

I stopped quickly and headed back to the tent. The Missus gave me my spot back and I started reviewing the finish line footage. At some point I headed to the car to get rid of my jersey and pull on a t-shirt. I slipped into my jeans too but I don't know when.

Pins. The number didn't flap.

The P123s had a fast and furious race, the largest field, the most aggressive racing. A crash marred the final lap but overall the race ended up hard fought and quite competitive. For me the scoring turned into a nightmare with the cameras ill suited for low light conditions. This is something to fix for the future - I'm thinking of a super high density of LED lights but I'm not sure how viable that would be. As it was the power cord to the 1200w lights got really, really hot, and I remember reading somewhere that most of the energy goes toward generating heat. If I could get the cooler LEDs to emit as much or more light (I remember one of the bike light companies had a bar of LED headlights, resembling a nunchaku handle, which had some insane amount of power, 100,000 lumens or something).

After everything finished it took a while to get things squared away. Without the big van it wasn't quite so straight forward to pack everything, and I had some extra gear (lighting, ladder) to haul. Even though I pawned off some large stuff onto others the car ended up packed to the gills. I need to get more efficient at doing this stuff.

The Missus had headed home with Junior shortly after the P123s finished. I followed an hour or three later. Once home I took my bike off the roof rack, brought in the bare minimum of stuff (dirty kit and electronics), and called it a night. It would be Monday morning before the exhaustion left my body.

Story - Experiencing the Belgian Kermesses

In early 1992 I went out to race in Belgium, sort of on a lark. My family lived there, they had a car. I figured I could take advantage of an "already in place" support system, one that could provide hard-to-get things like transportation, food/shelter, and English speaking people.

I brought my bike, spare wheels, spare rims (and spokes), a roof rack, 50 Power Bars, my tool box, everything I thought I'd need for a 3 week, 9 race campaign. My bike box weighed over 46 kilograms - about 102 pounds! Over the course of a few months my mom had gotten information on local races, learned which publications had race info (remember this is pre-Internet as we know it), and I got a letter from the USCF saying I could race in Belgium (and Holland, just in case). Finally I got myself an International License with my picture on it.

I felt like I was going into a Twilight Zone episode. It seemed so unreal.

Me: Cat 3, reasonably fit, good sprint, terrible TT/climber. Them: one step below the best pros - some winners earlier signed with the big teams in the area - PDM, Buckler, Tonton Tapis, etc. Guys trying to break into the pro field.

I trained a lot leading up to that trip - a winter of two 100+ miles days each week, getting fit/lean/etc. We'd usually ride from Ridgefield, go up past the center of Kent, and do the steepest hills we could find using a topographic map of the area. We did some fast riding during those days too, cruising down Route 7 with my teammate John at 28 mph. I'd never felt so at ease on the bike. We felt strong and cocky.

One climb, off of Route 7, was horrible - after about 40 miles of riding we'd hit what amounted to the second big climb of the day. The first time I did it I was in my bottom gear, 42x26 (I'd switched out the 21T), and weaving back and forth like a drunk. A couple months later, on the same climb, I scampered away, turning something like a 42x17, and got to the top with enough time to get off my bike, lay down on a rock wall, and pretend I was sleeping before John got there.

I got a new bike over the winter, a Cannondale equiped with the innovative Campy Ergopower levers, 8 speed cassette, and a host of goodies. I built up the wheels with light FIR Isidis rims (approx 330g box section tubulars), alloy spoke nipples, double butted 15 gauge (1.8mm) spokes. The bike was really light, really responsive.

I rode a 50 cm Cannondale with a couple inches of post showing. John rode a 66 cm Cannondale with a 400mm mountain post at max height. We must have looked quite a sight. Cannondales were an anomaly in Europe - most people had not seen one before. The fat tubes, the cantilever dropout, my Aerolite pedals, all were "American" and many, many people picked up my 17 pound bike and expressed doubts about its reliability.

The knowledgeable ones questioned my choice of a "climbing" rim as opposed to their sturdy 400-450g choices of a "reliable" rim. They were curious about the Ergo levers, the first generation, the first available. For these starving wanna-be-pros and their (usually) dads, they were a great luxury and everyone checked them out.

Most of them were riding old Campy, downtube, friction, with 32 hole GP4's. A standard racing bike, no frills. Not light but who needs lightness when your altimeter barely registers a few feet a race? I realized the downtube shifters were appropriate later - they just put it in the 12T and go.

First race (and every race - for the 9 races I did) were on 5-7 km lap courses, 20 or so laps. Flat. Some wind, not as much as I'd expect. Maybe 1/4 cobbles. Due to our international licenses, we could only do international races (i.e. cat 1 level probably). We were both middling Cat 3's and seriously out of our element.

We changed in the car but I learned at the last race that this is illegal. Race listings (in Flemish) list a something ("changing location", a restaurant/bar with all the chairs pushed to one side) and a something else ("registration location", another restaurant/bar but they set up a row of tables for you to register, sign, pick up a number, and stuff like that).

You go to the registration bar, inevitably filled with old men smoking up a storm. It seemed like they were discussing the odds of various racers winning - apparently racing is also a betting sport. An old lady (usually - I don't remember a guy doing this) types up the number, name, and team on a manual typewriter. Clack clack clack. They make copies and sell them for 10 francs to the bettors and spectators. You'd see people walking around with them, checking off names as they dropped, talking about the unchecked names excitedly.

Registration was 100 francs but you got 90 back if you returned your very sturdy number - usually a very nicely painted number (think Sesame Street numbers) on the back of what looked like a vinyl coated tablecloth. Sometimes they didn't have change so they'd give you the full 100 francs, especially since I got shelled so quickly.

That's a foreshadowing hint by the way.

They pull you if you're more than three minutes behind. They stop pulling racers when the remaining racers all have place money - 20 or 40 places in the races I did. The prizes are paid for by the Belgian Federation. Therefore race costs were minimal. However, at that time, a Belgian license was over $300 annually. The best thing to do would be to get a $30 US license and race in Belgium - but only if you were really, really good.

Most of the fields were 195-210 racers. No field limits but I learned that field limits wouldn't have changed things.

First race I figured they'd go easy for 30-50 km and then put the hammer down. I casually warmed up, rolled around a little, and lined up. It was a "shorter" course, perhaps 5 km in length. There was a long, slight uphill stretch to the finish - perhaps 1% grade, maybe 800+ meters in length. I optimistically counted pedal revolutions to the finish to gauge where to launch my sprint. We got all set, they lined us up, and we went.

I got pulled after one lap.

My max speed that lap was over 70 kph. That's 44 miles an hour. On a flat course.

And I got dropped on that lap!

I got dropped so bad I couldn't see anyone in the race on the long finish stretch. I got pulled off the course by the officials and everyone pointed at the American on the really fat light bike that is too light and stiff for cobbles.

I approached races differently after that. I had no illusions of making 100-120km. I wanted to do just 5 km. Therefore I started warming up to do a 5 km sprint. Heat rub. Jettison water. Lightest wheels. Highest pressure. Anything to buy me 5 or 10 kph.

Every race was the same. My legs were screaming from all the Atomic Balm I had on (and back then, it came with turpentine - to help penetrate skin). I was doing hard jumps to prepare for the launch off the line. And we were training by doing very fast sections separated by spinning - trying to improve our speed.

And every race (Sat, Sun, Wed) was the same. We'd get pulled after the first lap.

There was one point to point race we were thinking of doing in our pre-trip planning. My mom had sent us a bunch of VeloNews equivalents with race dates, locations, and registration information. The point to point was a long race, something like 150 or 200 km. But when we realized how bad we were, we chickened out. Plus I was sick. Good thing - we saw the race on TV (!). Phil Anderson and Dag-Otto Lauritzen, both top pros for Motorola, were putting the hurt on the locals. I think Lauritzen won. His other palmares includes a mountain stage in a race you might know - the Tour de France. Anderson is not shabby either - stages wins in the Tour, many days in the Yellow, and a host of smaller wins and close calls in the Classics.

I was sort of glad I was sick that day.

My teammate left a couple days before I did so I had one race to do on my own. 7 km course - long. Two more kilometers to hang on. I changed in the car (that's when I learned it was illegal to do that). Atomic Balm. Warm up. Check out the first couple kilometers of the course (as opposed to checking out the finish - I knew my place). I just wanted to make a lap and this was the last chance I had.

We lined up as normal on some small town road. Cobbles, sidewalks on both sides. The announcer yelled something. I must have looked lost - the guy next to me said in accented English "he's saying don't ride on the sidewalks". I don't know how long the race was - my goal was 7 km. 40 places. 200+ racers.

And then they sent us off.

Everyone immediately bunnyhopped onto the sidewalks, scattering spectators, causing a lot of ruckus at the start area. I found a concrete gutter and rode in that. 55-60 kph, 35-38 mph, situation normal. Everything was fine. It was the 65-70 kph, 40-43 mph sections which killed me. We narrowed into single file for some turn, went even faster. Wondering who the eff (in capitals) was at the front.

Right, he's probably trying to impress Peter Post or Jan Raas or some other Pro team director.

Blast around turns. One road was about 5 feet wide with overgrown hedges on one side and a brick wall on the other. The hedges narrowed it down even more. Lifesaver. No wind, single file, no one can pass. Everyone had to wait behind me. I didn't open a gap but on a 1 km stretch like that normally 30-40-50 racers would fly past me at 70+ kph.

Instead, due to the hedges, no one did.

Fast turn. Dirt inside. Everyone coasted. I pedal frantically in the dirt, through the turn, blast by about 15 guys, they all yell at me. Crazy American with the fat light bike, the weird pedals, using rims that will fall apart after a week or two of racing.

The strong riders let their legs do the talking on the straights. If you have to pull moves on corners they yell at you.

I'm not strong so I pulled those moves.

The last bit leading back into town is a curvy road, lined with ditches and electric cow fences. I actually saw the lead car once, probably due to my cornering antics. But I fell back as we hit the cobbles. I could maintain 55 kph but everyone else - 60-65 kph. I got into a concrete gutter, smooth as silk after cobbles. And the guys behind would ride around me, opting to go over cobbles instead of sitting on my wheel.

And they'd fly past me.

Their strength was simply astounding.

I focused on holding the wheel in front. I kept hunting gears, trying to find something bigger than my 12T. After a bit of this I looked up when I heard some yelling. I was at the start/finish! I finished a lap! I'd made my goal.

But the race had another 100 km or so. I kept going, I felt good, fast, spinning ridiculously high gears.

Through the hedge section. My legs were screaming. Suddenly I hated the smooth road - it meant the others went that much faster. I like the cobbles better. At least I could say, "well, they dropped me on the cobbles." Sounds reasonable. And no one here would know what that meant.

I could barely hang onto the wheel. I was dying. Next section I was done.

Everyone went by me. The follow car stayed behind me briefly but the driver, probably an astute ex-racer, saw my massive difficulties and went around and rushed up to the tail end of the single file field. I slowed to a mere 50 kph, gasping, wondering how these guys do it.

As we hit the cobbles after the curvy cow section, a racer trundled by, his wheel thrumming on the cobbles. He was spinning a tiny gear, perhaps a 53x16, going 55 kph or so. I got on his wheel, and now I was going 55 kph. I started wondering when I'd come off. But his spinning was maxing out his aerobics. I was thinking of telling him to shift up but I don't know Flemish. I actually pulled through, churning a 13T or so, and after 20 or so pedal strokes, let him pull for another kilometer.

We flew past the start finish area. Two laps! This was incredible.

But, realistically, it was my last lap. Way behind the field (but not 3 minutes!). And one guy for company.

We went through the hedges. He kept spinning ridiculously fast. And when we got the curvy cow section, he started to ease. He knew I couldn't really pull. So he was stuck on his own. Why fight the inevitable?

I eased too and we rolled up to the start finish at some sedate speed, perhaps 45 kph. The officials blew the whistle and pulled us over.

I got to my car, dejected. I wanted another lap. I wanted another chance with the field. I wish I could do this for a whole year. I'd be in amazing shape.

I thought about this in the car. I decided not to change in the car as I had learned that morning that it's illegal, big fine, bad things. I didn't want to get arrested for flashing someone - how would I explain that?

I got my bag and went to the Changing Bar. The previous times I entered one it'd been empty, a chair or two in the middle, a guy with a small bucket type thing of water, wiping himself down, his dad or girlfriend or coach sitting with a mournful look. Usually those guys had crashed, hence they were out, and they were nursing their wounds.

Today was different. Gloriously different.

I opened the door and got hit by a wall of noise. I walked in. The place was packed. A couple hundred people were there. The racers were obvious - they were the naked or half naked men, the ubiquitous bucket at their feet, wiping down the cow manure and dirt thrown up from the road. Around them, helping, jabbering, motioning, complaining, encouraging, crying (really!) were their supporters. Moms, Dads, girlfriends, coaches, teammates, friends. There was no concept of privacy, no segregation of sexes. Racers stood naked, trying to clean up, surrounded by their male and female supporters. Their buckets had hot water (I hadn't caught that before) and everyone took mini towel baths using that water.

One older non-racing guy was yelling a lot. He couldn't believe his guy (probably his son) got dropped. Someone said something to him. He started yelling again, to no one in particular. Apparently we'd done 1:07 kilometers for a lap or two, with the cobbles, wind, everything. He kept yelling that number over and over, shaking his head in disbelief, swearing (I know one swear in Dutch and he used it a lot).

I realized something.

Everyone was here.

Okay, not everyone. But everyone who wasn't in the top 40 was in here.

I changed and went out to watch the race. I took pictures. Counted racers. And timed the gaps.

There were a few groups on the road. The last big one, perhaps 10 or 12 riders, was at least three minutes down. But they were in the top 40 and so they'd be left in the race.

It hit me then. I was the same as all the other "Can't Be Pros". I'd gotten pulled just like the 160+ others in the Changing Bar.

I got back to my car, tired, elated.

I was a racer. And although it took me a few weeks of intense suffering, I'd elevated myself into the bottom of the elite amateur rung. The very bottom, I have to admit. But I was there.

I returned to the US and didn't think too much would change.

I was so wrong. I placed in virtually every race I entered. I did a hilly road race - and since I didn't know the course (I never do road races), I didn't take it out of the big ring, even on the "tough" climbs. I cramped a couple miles from the end - I had also refused to drink water out of my "tough guy just-came-back-from-Belgium" ego.

I was strong though. Insanely strong.

My new favorite tactic was to go at the gun, pull whenever the pace dropped below 33-34 mph, and see who was left after five laps. At one race, with about 10 laps remaining, I went to the front simply to ride everyone off my wheel. It took two laps of 28-35+ mph speeds but I finally rid myself of everyone on my wheel. I did another half lap to prove that my speed wasn't a fluke, looked back at all the suffering racers, then sat up and waited another half lap for everyone to catch me. I sprinted late and got fourth but I didn't care. I could ride riders off my wheel at will.

The last race of the year I did the same thing. For the first four laps I was either pulling or sitting on the lead guy. We were going 35 mph on the straights. I got tired after four laps and looked around. I didn't realize it but I'd dropped my faithful teammate Kevin. With no one to chase down breaks I monitored the front for much of the race.

At 8 to go I launched a probing attack. No one came with me. In two laps I'd built up a 20 second gap. I thought about what to do. 6 laps on my own? If this was a movie, I'd have put my head down and went for it. But my paltry 28 mph pace seemed too slow, especially compared to the 40+ mph surges the fields in Belgium dished out. I knew I could sprint. So I eased and recovered for a lap while the field chased me down. I slotted in at the front and waited too long in the sprint. Fourth again. I swore I'd do better "next year".

I never had a year like that again.

But I know to what I can attribute my form. The Belgian Kermesses. The killer pace.

The breeding grounds for the toughest pros around.

Addendum:
Pro Sitings
Pictures