Letters - Long Cranks

Originally posted in cyclingnews.com. (This letter addressed mountain bikes but the same holds true for road bikes).

In response to Richard Rule's crank length letter:

If you are 6'2", 35.5" inseam, there is little reason for you not to buy 180's. Long cranks give you extra leverage and allows your muscles to exert power over a greater range of motion. If you're limited in training time, don't have the aerobic capacity of a pro, and just want to enjoy 1-3 hour rides, then I think longer crank arms are great.

I'm only 5'7" with a 29" (barely) inseam. I ride a 49-50 cm seat tube frame. I have decent speed/power, terrible aerobic capacity. Conventional wisdom would put me on 170's or shorter. By working for a couple months to overcome the tendency to push, I eliminated the one significant drawback of the longer cranks. With limited training, I found a dramatic increase in performance after switching to 175's. I first learned of long crank usage when Renault Elf put their riders on long cranks. Marc Madiot, riding a 55 cm frame, used 180mm cranks with success. I "re-discovered" the theory last winter when I rode a mountain bike with 175s and found myself riding as fast on it as my road bike. I made the switch soon after that.

Some precautions. Long cranks force your feet to make bigger circles and increase the distance your various leg parts travel for each revolution. Your knees go higher, drop farther, your foot extends forward more, your Achilles is stretched a little bit more. Long legs minimize a lot of those effects. Long cranks require adaptation time, which, if skipped, give rise to some "long crank arm" myths like the inability to spin and losing efficiency. Since the cranks drop further, you'll hit them (or your pedals) more often on rocks and such.

If you allow yourself time to adapt to the new cranks, you'll be able to spin fine. Switching off season helps - you can focus on regaining pedal speed instead of keeping up with your riding friends. After my November 2001 swap, my comfortable cadence dropped to just over 70 rpm's. However, my performance increased significantly due to increased leverage/power. By March 2002, my comfortable cadence was back at 100+ rpm's. To measure cadence, buy a simple cyclometer with cadence. Mine cost less than US$60 (and it has heavy duty wires for mountain bikes). You can also count rpm's for 6 seconds and multiply by 10, but this is less accurate and immediate. To see where you ride comfortably, simply ride without paying attention to your exact cadence. I find that my cadence climbs 5-10 rpms if I ignore it. You'll find that your cadence returns to a consistent range each time you do this on a given day or week.

As pointed out in other letters, "pedaling efficiency" has more to do with having a good form and discipline rather than crank length. If you can maintain form comfortably at 100-120 rpm's, whatever the crank length, you'll be able to maintain it at lower rpm's.

Losing efficiency in specific situations is a different matter. Long cranks don't help sometimes, particularly at very low cadences. On very steep climbs at low rpm's, they seem to lose efficiency (this is my personal observation). I attribute the efficiency loss to a combination of a longer "dead spot" in the pedal stroke as well as a higher output "power stroke". Long cranks also accentuate the difference between your lowest and highest output for each revolution. This causes the pedal to "stall" in the dead spots. When pedaling at a reasonable speed (70-80+ rpm's), the dead spot issue is moot. In fact, you'll find that you have significant more power on slight and moderate uphills - you'll be able to shift up a gear or two. Your flat land cruising speed will increase as well, as much as 10%. Your top speed will decrease for a given gear due to the larger pedaling arc - you'll find yourself using bigger gears when sprinting.

If you do decide to get the longer cranks, don't forget to adjust your position on the bike. Your position is determined by the amount your cranks point forward (for seat fore-aft) and down (for seat height). Check your seat height (lower for longer cranks), seat setback (this may not be necessary because lowering your seat will move it forward), stem height and length (lower and longer, usually). If you install 5 mm longer cranks, you'll need to move your seat forward about 5 mm and down about 5 mm. Remember to first maintain the seat-pedal relationship and then worry about the seat-bar relationship. Don't adjust your seat position to fix an incorrect stem or bar - this compromises your seat-pedal position. Instead, you should fix it by changing your stem or bar. In the case of 5 mm longer cranks, your stem will need to drop 5 mm and extend 5 mm.

Story - G Fox - and a little history

When people ask what I "do" for fun I tell them I race bikes. A lot of people figure I mean motorcycles so I have to clarify, "You know, like the Lance bikes."

Then I get a lot of nodding. And one of a few reactions.

Unfortunately one of the more common ones is, "I never heard of him until someone I know got cancer and I found out he won the Tour de France after he got over cancer." Then there's talk about cancer, how tough it is on a family, and a report on how that someone is doing.

Another is, "So you race the Tour?". I have to smile sheepishly and admit that, no, I'm not that good. I'm just a very amateur version of those pros - akin to intramural softball versus the Yankees.

Or the Red Sox, in deference to the future missus.

We were at home one Saturday when a slew of people looked at the house. One well educated potential house buyer asked if I race up the Pyrenees like the pros. I took a liking to that couple right away but they didn't buy the house.

I usually say, somewhat inaccurately, that my races are not on TV, that I don't appear on TV. But that's not entirely true.

First off, a couple years ago, I got a very excited call from a friend asking if I'd just raced in some Friday Street Sprints (the Connecticut Sprint Championships, if you must know). Apparently I was on the news that evening. I never saw the clip but now that I remembered it again, I'll have to ask if I can get a clip from the news station (our local cable TV). So, yes, for a few seconds, I was there on the TV.

And second, I was on TV. Just not the way you think.

That's me!

If you look at the picture carefully, you'll notice a number of things. I suppose I could run a contest, but I'll point out what I've noticed over the years.

1. I'm really skinny. In this shot I was sixteen years old (based on bike, team jersey, helmet, shorts) and probably weighed less than 100 pounds. I figure this because when I went to college at 17 and 11/12ths years old, I was a massive 103 pounds. That sounds great for a climber right? Problem was I couldn't climb. And at that point, I didn't have quite the sprint either so my race results weren't very impressive.

2. No ANSI approved helmet - the Brancale Giro helmet I'm wearing was nothing more than a thin plastic shell with some foam strips inside. I painted the helmet (the other side is much better looking) with a Rising Sun and some Japanese words. The Japanese characters are real - I had my mom write down some encouraging words like Victory, Strength, Speed, and a few others which I forget. Then I painstakingly painted them on the helmet with my plastic model paint, using the brush I used to detail 1/72 scale soldiers and various other fine bits.
I also added a number of cooling vents - I added three to each of the sides (and enlargened all of them) and two to the back (there were only three to begin with). Although such modifications typically negate a helmet's safety, this helmet is so bad it didn't matter. I do know that even recently a number of strong racers cut out lots of foam out of their (previously approved) helmets to improve cooling. No word on how they fare when they hit the ground, although the riders I am thinking of are all with us still. Nowadays I think such helmet mods are unnecessary - they're all quite good with ventilation straight out of the box.

3. Toe clips and straps. I'm using clips and straps. 'Nuff said. Right before I went clipless I used three straps per foot. And even with the straps so tight my feet went numb I'd still pull out of the pedals if I shifted hard in a sprint. Not a problem with clipless pedals. In this picture I'm on the original pedals (Miches, Campy knockoffs like all pedals that era) with double straps, the ends with toe strap button things. The button things are so you can yank really hard on the strap without slipping, even in the wet.

4. Non-aero brake cables. The (red!) Modolo Pro brakes replaced the original Modolo Speedys/Sprints (I forget which came on the bike but the originals are on it in this picture). Stiffer, more solid, and lighter, they were my favorite brakes until I got aero cables. The following year, in an attempt to do the aero brake look, I actually ran the cables backwards, the housing exiting the actual lever and looping back around to the bar. I eventually got DiaCompe aero levers, the kind Eric Vanderaerden used in the 1983 Paris Nice, used Shimanos for a while, and finally went to Ergo levers.

5. The picture is reversed! I'm really not riding a left hand drive prototype bicycle. The negative was flipped somewhere.

6. I'm still using downtube shifters in the shot (Campy, for those who care). I didn't change to a right-side bar-end (Suntour) until a year or so later.

7. This was my second of three red road bikes. My first 10 speed was red, this was red, and my first Cannondale was red. After that Cannondale I've always seemed to have black, blue, or some silver-grey sort of bike. The exception to the color rule were my last two mountain bikes - the last serious one, a full suspension XC Jamis, was red, and my current "traded it on a whim" bike is white.

I figure the photographer was a local rider (he was on the same team) who did about a third of the pictures for the first few years of Winning Magazine (the pictures seemed evenly split between him, Darcy Kiefel - that racer's wife, and some third guy named Graham Watson). I figure the race was the state road race in 1984, perhaps the Greenfield Stage Race in Massachusetts. There were virtually no other races where I rode with such a leafy backdrop.

What was interesting was my girlfriend at the time loved to shop and worked at G Fox. And one day she noticed the flyers had a bike racer on it. And not only that - the bike racer was her boyfriend!

One night shortly thereafter she and I trekked over there and I took all the flyers by one of the escalators - probably about 50, a stack a foot high. I figured that if they told me to put them back then I'd ask for a "modeling fee". It didn't matter, no one questioned why we were so interested in the weekly specials anyway.

My mom (of course) framed one of the flyers. It's the one pictured and hangs next to my desk now. And she kept it with her wherever they lived - Japan, Belgium, Indiana, Spain. (Yeah, yeah, I know Indiana doesn't fit in there but they did live there.)

So when people ask me, "So have you ever been on TV?" I can say, with a straight face, "Yep."

Story - Karma, or What Goes Around...

When I first started riding, I had very little money for cycling. My parents, having grown up under wartime hardship, were very frugal. Nothing wrong with it - I've taken after them, albeit from a middle class point of view. I had my period of struggling to eat from day to day but it was nothing permanent. For example, I lamented about scrounging for food. The thing though was that there was food out there, I just had to get it. It's different, I suppose, when there isn't any food at all. Your priorities get straightened out pretty quickly.

This didn't mean I went without. In fact, my parents never skimped when it came to helping the kids. We may have been driving around in a somewhat beat up Toyota but we were going to violin and piano lessons, judo and tae kwon do, swim stuff, who knows what else, and we all got a good education.

1888 Gemunder, my "red" violin. Relatively speaking, I was a much better violin player than a bike racer.

My parents also let us chose our hobbies. The kids sort of migrated into them. For me, at first, it was building plastic models. Living in Holland encouraged my fascination with World War 2 history - the local zoo had a Sherman tank (short barrel, with welded on links for extra protection), a midget sub (essentially a torpedo with hollowed out sides so it could carry two torpedos - each as big as the sub itself), and across the highway was an abandoned bunker. Wassenaar, this particular town, happened to be the site of the first V2 rocket launch. Unlike here in bucolic New England, fighter jets (F-16s mostly) regularly flew overhead.

I suppose it's like living near Camp Pendleton. It's hard to forget military presence when it's an every day thing to see choppers, jets, and various military ships.

When I realized I enjoyed building plastic models, I didn't just build one or three or a dozen. I had a virtual battalion of 1/72 scale soldiers and equipment - 1000 or so men, all painstakingly painted with boots, guns, belts, uniforms, and flesh (they didn't require assembly but came in packs of 46-50). They were surrounded by dozens of tanks, anti-tank guns, half-tracks, and a few jeeps. Their support came from an air force of perhaps 50 planes, again all carefully built, each model selected for their role in a particular battle.

Eventually a non-regulation ping pong table became my battle ground. Paper mache landscape, painted green and covered in fake grass and bushes, became the scene of a continually fluctuating battle - the Axis attacking the Allies one day, the next day the roles reversed.

(I wish I had a picture but I don't - sorry.)

I mention all this because my parents never actually pushed me to do plastic models. In fact they were worried that the fumes would affect me. Who knows, maybe they did. Holed up in my room, the windows often closed, gluing and painting models for hours on end... I'd walk down the stairs lightheaded afterwards.

I earned money for models by doing chores and I also asked for them for any special occasion - a baby brother arrives, a baby sister, relatives visit, things like that. It wasn't a case of "Wow I want that one" and I got it. It was more a case of "I really, really want that" and saving money for a week or three and then buying it.

I did spend a lot of time dreaming about other toys. I always wanted a slot car set - to the point that 30 years later I visited a slot car place (conveniently in the same space as CyclArt, a great painting shop) and ooh'ed and aah'ed over all the different things done nowadays. For years I pored over the Sears catalog, checking out the various tracks, the lengths, the realism (I didn't want loops - because they don't exist in real racing). At some point slotless cars came out - and now there was the whole element of passing!

Alas, these toys were pretty expensive and I never got a set. I dreamed and begged and pleaded for something like 6 or 7 years (and for a kid between 6 and 12 years old that's a long time!) but to no avail.

My bike interest, then, probably shocked my parents from a fiscal point of view. A plastic model was $5 or so, paint something like $2 per color. But bikes... Just the bike was $200 (Schwinn Traveler III). Toe clips, I forget the actual price but about $4 or $5. Toe straps ("What, they're not included?") might run $10 more. Bottle. Cage. Kickstand (yep I had them for a while). Rack. The funny clothing.

Right, the funny clothing.

I saved granola bar UPC codes and sent them in, along with $19.95, to get my first jersey, a yellow jersey with black side panels. That disintegrated many years ago but I have my second ever jersey, a yellow and red one.

Note the high-tech collar.

Buttons on the pockets? Yep.

I eventually asked for, and received, after a lot of negotiating and a few years of serious cycling, a real racing bike. It was a combination present - everything I could possibly think of that happened in the latter half of 1982 - birthday, Christmas, finishing middle school, doing a lot of chores, practicing, whatever I could think of, I banked that gift amount towards this bike.

And boy was it expensive!

$585 with relaced wheels (GP4s with Wolber tires). Campy Super Record rear derailleur, Nuovo Record front and shifters, Modolo Speedy (or maybe worse) brakes, Excel Rino cranks. Custom gearing, 53x42, 15-21, in preparation for Junior racing.

After the first year of racing (and the obligatory team jersey purchase) I maintained a pretty serious winter training schedule. During the week I mainly rode a Racer Mate 2 wind trainer.

My backup bike posing on that same RacerMate 2, 24 years later, along with the resistance unit from a RacerMate 1

On those winter weekends I did a now-defunct group ride out of Oscars Deli in Westport.

Winter meant it was cold. But having blown all my money on the bike, race entries, two new tires, and various other things, I had no money for winter gear. Instead I made do with specifically bought regular clothing.

For example, when my mom took me shopping for a sweater, I suggested that I'd like a black sweatshirt instead. I chose one that was a bit tight and suddenly it ended up being my base layer (black made it look pro). Some pajama shopping turned up snug fitting black sweatpants - they were somehow recruited as biking long pants. I used garden gloves (no kidding) for long finger gloves - they were windproof and had fuzzy insides. And since we didn't train with helmets too much (they weren't even ANSI approved) I wore a knit hat.

Well, sometimes I wore a couple.

You can imagine that the gear didn't work well. My base layer, soaked in sweat, became wet, damp, and cold. No wicking. No wind protection. Well not until I used the trick always described in pro racing - the newspaper up the shirt. After staining various jersey/t-shirts, I migrated to using plastic bags instead.

Actually, when hard pressed, I still use plastic bags.

One day, at the ride, one of the regulars named Dan presented me one day with a brand new set of booties. I was shocked. For me? He laughed and said it made him cold looking at me ride in 25 degree weather with only socks and shoes on. I told him I didn't mind - my feet were numb after 10 minutes and it didn't make a difference afterwards. I didn't want to mention the thawing agony once I got home but I figured it didn't need mentioning.

He gave me one of those looks that you can really only give to teenagers who think they have the world at their feet.

I accepted the booties. My feet were toasty! What a revelation!

I ended up with some donated tights too. Although they weren't the best, they fit better than the sweats, covered my ankles, and had no seam down the middle. My uncle, who lives in Milan, sent a Basso long sleeve jersey.

I wrecked it in my big crash.

Over the course of time I've received a lot of gifts. One friend who raced pro in Europe gave me one of his team kits - tights, shorts, jersey, gloves, and even a thermal jacket! I wore the kit everywhere for a while - now they're all threadbare and relegated to trainer use.

My friend also accumulated bike travel bags. I borrowed one, didn't return it for a while (like a year), and when I called him to let him know I had it he asked me if I could do him a favor.

Sure thing, I told him.

"Could you keep it?", he asked. "I have two other cases and my dad's getting on my case about where to keep this stuff."

Well now. I suppose I could do something like that.

I can tell you that bag's been used for many years, received a roller-wheel upgrade (courtesy Home Depot and me), and it's been a great bag. I've flown to California a few times, Florida a few times, and never had a problem.

For many, many years I was the receiver of such gifts. Schwag is one thing - that's someone trying to sell you something (or get you to sell it) so they give you things to make you like them more.

But these were different. It was more than just trying to keep friends or to get something out of them. These were friends trying to help me out, giving me stuff that I really appreciated.

I found myself trying to contribute my bit. I'd drive a lot since I love driving. My ex-pro bike case friend didn't like driving his red Honda, I really liked it, so when we carpooled, I'd drive the car. When he got the car it had perhaps 10k-15k miles on it. We drove it everywhere and he drove it even more. A great fun car, you could pile in the racers, throw the bikes on the roof, and putt-putt away to the races.

When my ex-pro friend bought a nice, new Mazda3, I bought red Honda from him. Paid him what he wanted (and perhaps needed). It was 12 years later and the odometer read 246k miles. I expect tomorrow to hit 270k miles.

Shortly after I bought the car...

There was this kid that hung out at the shop. When first came in, perhaps 12, he loved BMX bikes. But after an all day trip on one, he realized the limitations of one speed, a weird seat position, and 20" tires. Converted to the Road Side, he bought a Cannondale road bike and immersed himself in the sport.

Eventually he started working at the shop. After work we'd go for a ride, usually with a few other riders, do our 30 or so miles, and then come back to the shop. There we'd spend a couple hours degreasing our bikes, polishing anything shiny aluminum, detailing our bikes, and prepping them for tomorrow's ride.

And we'd do the same thing the next day.

Three of us agreed to meet for an early morning race. This meant a 5 o'clock meet at a commuter lot. One teammate, whose car we took, was there. I piled my stuff in and waited for the other. But our friend, the ex-BMX'er, didn't show up. After giving him as much time as we could afford, we called him. Woke him (and his family) up. Told him we'd pick him up. He begged us off, told us to go race, not to be late on his account.

We drove to his house, picked him up, and took off.

Once on the way he admitted that his dad had yelled at him.

To go race.

"Your friends respect you, you're important to them, that's why they want you to go with them. You have to go with them. It's the only thing to do."

Probably not as polite but you get the gist of the message.

He eventually left the shop to help his dad with their family business, a successful high-end classic car restoration shop. A couple years later he dropped by on a day off to say hi. He couldn't help but notice that the shop was busy. He asked if he could help. Took an unused workstand. Set up his workspace. And ended up slaving away for 5 or 6 hours.

No pay. Nothing.

Just a "Hey, I gotta get going. I hope this helped."

And he was off.

A few years later, when I worked locally on an odd three day week (12 hours a day doing IT support), I asked him if I could help out around his garage on my off days. I'd get there sometime after everyone else arrived and do grunt work - sweep the floor, take stuff to the dumpster.

Sometimes I got to do interesting stuff - machine the cup spacer things on a Lotus Espirit 16 valve engine (they have solid lifters and need a valve job every so many thousand miles). I mounted and balanced a lot of tires. I helped take out a Mangusta's engine/tranny and helped put it back in. I even did a lot of work on his brother's Saab 900 turbo - help remove and install the head, do the shocks, axles, ball joints, brakes. Did brakes on a couple cars. Took inventory.

They tried to pay me something but I refused. I wanted to help out and I felt like I could. That was enough. My helping out let them focus on tough things like rebuilding a 50's Aston Martin. It was usually fun to help, but there's nothing fun about sweeping metal shavings off of an oily lathe or machining tool the size of a motorcycle.

Yet it was oddly satisfying.

I never left feeling used. Sometimes I left wishing I could have done more but I always left feeling good about what work I'd done.

Nowadays I drop by every now and then to mount and balance tires. Or order a few parts. Or ask him car questions. He recently got a bike and started riding again.

So last weekend I rode with another good friend of mine. I've known him since his wife was pregnant with their first child - a child who is going to college next month.

Makes me feel old.

Anyway, he's had some problems with wheels - specifically, a particular brand of hub would spontaneously freewheel in both directions. It happened once when he was cranking up a hill and he broke his shoulder because he flipped over the bars. He replaced the wheel with the same manufacturer wheel, just newer. It happened again on our ride.

Now just a couple days before that ride he had come over to help us out. He works with really big metal structures and when I asked him about how to get a really nice lock off of the PODS, he told me he had just the thing.

So as not to compromise all the locks out there, suffice it to say that in two minutes the $90 lock was off.

Unusable, yes, but off.

I have a lot of wheels. With my relatively new PowerTap, my standard repertoire of rear wheels was suddenly obsolete. This included my Campagnolo Eurus wheels, the most reliable wheels I've ever ridden. In fact they're pictured on the RacerMate up above.

The day after our ride, I gave him the rear Eurus to ride. No worries about the cassette body suddenly not catching - Campy is better than that.

And for good riddance I gave him my front TriSpoke (the clincher - the tubular has a flat). Worth a couple mph for sure and makes it easier to sit in a fast moving field.

He has two weeks to get used to the TriSpoke's handling characteristics. He reported today that he was flying on the wheelset. No insecurities about flipping over the bars. And the TriSpoke was fast.

It's a good feeling, being able to provide that kind of security, that mental boost, to be able to provide it to someone who is not in the position to blow a grand on a set of nice, fast wheels.

It's a good thing.

You know the two teammates that drove to that early morning race after the one overslept? Over the years they both helped me tremendously. They stuck by me through some pretty bad times. We have our lives but we still manage to hang out now and then.

Unfortunately, in about 10 years, we've never all gotten together. One simply lives too far away. Just me and the far one or me and the near one.

It's too bad because we were inseparable when we were racing together.

They'll be able to hang out in October though. At my wedding. Because they'll be standing by my side as my best man and groomsman.

Cycling, like life, has its flows and ebbs. It brings people together in a powerful manner. When things are good, give a bit. Share what you have, whether it's equipment, advice, or simply a shoulder to lean on (or perhaps push off of). When things are tight, I think you'll find that your friends are there for you.

I've found that the case with me, and I feel fortunate for it.

Review - PowerTap SL

So I got the PowerTap in April.

I had a Cycle Ops electronic trainer (measures power etc) before the PowerTap (PT) - made by the folks who make PT. I liked training with power and heart rate - it seemed the right way to ride. I found it both motivating and revealing. For example, sometimes I wasn't going as hard as I thought - other times, the opposite. I found that loud music was worth something like 50-75+ steady state watts, that being awake and motivated probably 50+ watts as well.

Yes, this means that I sometimes train at 90 or 100 watts average since I rarely hold 200 watts average for 30 minutes or more.

When the electronic trainer burnt up (it started smoking and wires melted and stuff) I decided I wanted a "portable" power meter. Having power on the trainer was fun but I couldn't relate it to real world performances. I selected the PT after a lot of thinking, a lot of budgeting, and finally a quick swipe of the credit card.

So does it help? Does knowing power help?

I suppose the answer really depends on what you want from it.

Yes it tells you power. It downloads easily onto a USB equipped computer. It graphs your speed, heart rate, torque, and power. You can select a period of time simply by clicking at the beginning and end of it and the program will tell you your stats for just that interval. Power readings are available as peak, 5 second best, 30 second best, 1 minute, 5 minute, 30 minute, and 120 minute bests.

I haven't taken advantage of it as a tool though. For me it's more like a gadget.

I don't train that much - my PT, which I got in April and which I've ridden both indoors and out, has 850 miles or so on the odometer - and that includes about 60-70% trainer rides. I do use the PT all the time except when I've ridden my tandem (maybe 50 miles on the latter).

But I don't use the PT to figure out my next interval or how much power to put out on the next hill. I've never set out with a wattage goal in mind - it's usually a heart rate target and I check to see if I'm going well or not based on the power relative to my heart rate.

I have used it to gauge how I'm doing in races and during hard efforts. My best 1 minute efforts on the electronic trainer were about 400 watts. In races, I found I could do 450 watts for a minute, once 500. A few days ago, after writing the start of this post and thinking about it, I realized I hadn't done a one minute effort in a long time - a couple years. I did two and managed to maintain 500+ watts for both.

I found this pretty cool since in races I haven't been able to hit such sustained 60 second power levels. So now I know that the races I did earlier this year weren't as much work as what I did last night, at least for a minute.

Without a power meter, there's no way I would have known this.

Speed and cadence data is hard to interpret - there are too many variables to be able to extrapolate data from these numbers. Wind, gearing, incline, and perhaps elevation all affect your speed and cadence.

Many people use heart rate monitors and heart rate is a bit more telling. However, in my big efforts, a heart rate monitor really wouldn't have helped at all. When I did my two 500+ watt one minute efforts, my heart rate never went over 163. I blow at 170-173 or so. It shows that although I may not feel like I'm fit, I have some fitness. Or, more realistically, that my efforts were too short to get my heart rate up. Either way, a heart rate monitor would have told me "nice try but no cigar".

The reality was that I went harder for that minute than I have in any race I've done with the PowerTap.

In that sense, a power meter is good.

It's obvious too that if the power meter doesn't work then it's not really useful. In that respect the PT is very good. I used it in during a thunderstorm that was pretty bad - bad enough to "red flag" a Pro/1/2/3 race - and had no problems with the hub or the head unit. I've used it in pretty cold weather too although no sand or snow or salt. And I've banged around my bike in my trunk, the basement, and on the trainer. No data drops that I know of, no problems with the head or the hub.

Setting up the thing wasn't that quick but it was reasonable. The odd thing are the zip ties - if the bike gets really hot they don't stay tied. I got my bike out of my car one day (I left it in there during a really hot day) and virtually all the ties were loose - and I used a lot of zip ties. It was sort of odd. It looked like some of those magical shoemaker elves undid all my zip ties overnight or something. I used pliers to re-zip them and they've been fine since.

I'd like to get another PT wheel so that I have one for training, one for racing. A whole setup is not that much so I'd buy a second unit. I'd use the second "head" on a different bike or put it on my fiancee's bike. The second hub would be a 24 hole so that I can lace a 24 hole deep dish rim on it. I'd revert my first PT hub back to a non-tubular training wheel once the second wheel is built.

Of course this gets the price of the PT up there, almost into the SRM category. Almost. I'd have to buy a third PT to hit SRM levels. If I'd gotten an SRM to start with, I wouldn't have had to rebuild any wheels or anything. I still think the PT is easier to handle financially since you really only have to get one wheel. And a lot of folks apparently train with the PT but race on "race" wheels.

The one time you can't use a PT is if you want to use a real disk wheel. Since I don't time trial a disk wheel is not an issue. If you're a TT god you'd need an Ergomo or SRM to be able to ride a disk while getting power output.

Overall I like the PT a lot. If you're thinking of getting a power measuring unit, the PT is pretty foolproof, compatible with both Shimano and Campy cassettes, build-able like a normal wheel, and sets up similarly to a cyclo computer with cadence and rear wheel speed pickup.

I like it. I guess there's not much more to say than that.

Letters - Sprinting

This letter first appeared in cyclingnews.com. I decided to republish it as it's been quoted in full on a different site and I think it helps describe why I like sprinting. I wrote this letter in response to someone who claimed there's more to life than just sprinting.

There's More to Life than Sprinting

I couldn't stay away from this one. I suppose I'm the antithesis of a climber so I figured I'd give the other point of view. With all due respect, by the way - I've learned the hard way how much hurt a climber can put on someone when things go uphill. And then they attack. Egads.

Climbing focuses on a combination of power to weight ratio and a high aerobic capacity. I liken this to being a triathlete or a runner - being very fit is critical to performing well for these athletes. Sprinting emphasizes tactical astuteness and fast-twitch muscles - it's hard to sprint well without those two traits. Well that and a bit of the need for adrenaline. Although the pro sprinters have to be fit, in the real world of Cat 4's and 3's, sprinters do not have to be as fit - they just need enough fitness to get to the finish.

I tend not to be fit and I have a decent jump. I absolutely love strategy and tactics (bikes, cars, games, whatever). Being a sprinter is a natural outlet for this combination. Given the choice between a long climb in a road race and close quarters, elbow to kneecap, skewer to pedal riding in a crit, I'll always take the latter. I can't climb to save my life - I've tried and failed miserably at that (ditto time trialing).

My two favorite training rides are based on sprinting. One now-defunct ride was the SUNY Purchase Tuesday night sprints. Imagine doing a sprint per lap on a 2 mile circuit for two and a half hours (!). Cat 1's to Cat 4's (there were no 5's back then) would show up in a field of 100 or more. Teams would practice leadouts and on the "nice wind" days, speeds would exceed 45 mph (75 kph) in the sprint. The other ride is one that we sometimes unofficially have, the Summer Street Thursday Night Sprints in somewhere in Connecticut. We'd ride at some odd time, like 10 or 11 PM, and do a couple hours of laps on a (coincidentally) 2 mile loop. With all one way streets (or two ways with medians), you never have to worry about oncoming traffic. And with a 35 mph speed limit, you can use cars, trucks, or even police cars as leadout men (the latter judiciously).

But in the end, it's all to go sprinting at a race. There is nothing like the last lap of a crit where the field is together - it is one of the most intense experiences one of us regular racers can have in a bike race. Everything about the race is to be decided - it's not just a formality. The actual selection is about to happen. So there's that building of anticipation as the laps wind down, where (as a sprinter) you pray that all breaks fail. Then, as your prayers are answered, you're in a gruppo compacto at the clanging bell, with the cheering crowd, friend screaming at you to "move up! move up!", the unique sound of chains and tires humming along, noise and confusion inundating your senses. There's the frantic fighting for position, the nudges, the racers diving suicidally into non-existent gaps. The rat-at-at of skewers and spokes (and the pause where everyone waits for the crash, but when it doesn't happen, everything just keeps on going). The occasional politeness ("sorry 'bout that" or non-verbal "let me in that gap" look). The desperate 100% attacks followed by eager opportunists, teams trying to line up leadouts, sprinters hollering at their leadout men, the field snaking across the road as leadout men respond to final attacks and other leadout train surges.

And all the mistakes that everyone makes tactically, it's incredible. Racers go too early, too late, let gaps open up - lack of commitment is a big weakness in close quarters racing. The zen-like instant decisions - Follow my leadout man? Will he blow? What about that leadout train? Where is that big blue sprinter guy? How did I get here? Blasting through the last couple corners, feeling the tires digging in and sliding just that bit, feeling the pedals just touching the pavement, racers yelling, the burnt rubber smell as someone miscalculates and locks up a tire, chains just slamming into gears as people shift under 100% load. There is that incredible speed that racers find in their legs when a few minutes ago they were struggling to hang on - just how did they find 36 mph (60 kph) in their legs?!

Then finally the first jump goes, a huge jump, the one that is supposed to gap a surprised field right away, immediately followed by all the counters (by non-surprised racers waiting for it) fighting to get onto this last (now suicidal) leadout's wheel. The momentary pause tactically as everyone goes all out after this upstart. Then the surges on the sides as the field quickly goes from strung-out to curb-to-curb then squeezing and expanding as racers try and close doors all over the place. The quick calculations - should I go again now? Wait? Why can't I shift up - am I already in my 12? Can I fit through that gap? Squeeze a bit to the right to shut down the guy there. Jam the brakes as someone does the same to you. Jump again, swearing so much to yourself that Howard Stern would censor you, thinking to yourself that you'll never be that careless again. Duck under that elbow as you pass a behemoth on a bike. Scoot past that shoulder (of a blown leadout guy) coming towards you so fast he might as well have hit a wall. And then, when you are ready, you commit yourself and totally punch it, almost lifting the bike off the ground you're pulling up so hard on the bars, trying to keep the back wheel on the ground, Conti's scrabbling for traction. It always comes up in slow motion, everyone's positions around you burned into your memory like a watercolor, the sprint taking longer and longer, time slowing down. Legs just don't seem to turn any faster no matter what you try to do to them. Then finally the last few meters goes by and you're throwing the bike at the line no matter what because your mentor told you to never ever take a sprint for granted and then time accelerates and you're 200 meters past the line breathing hard and replaying everything over and over, planning what you'll do the next time you're here.

Jeez my heartrate is kinda high just thinking about all this.

Monday, March 8, 2004

Pictures - Reference

Just a place for me to upload pictures so I can link to them from other sites. Yes there are stories behind each one. I'll get to them eventually.

Training - Long Hot Ride and a Whopper of a Sprint

So this morning I rode with a long time friend and long time ago teammate. We did a somewhat standard route for this area, looping up and around a big resevoir, returning on the misnamed Poverty Hollow Road (replete with horse farms and such), and then a quick run down the fast Route 136. His goal is to prepare for a possible race coming up, a flat crit, and he wanted to gauge his fitness level and pinpoint any weak spots.

In preparation for the ride I degreased and washed my bike. The drivetrain was pretty messy and it irritated me to look down and not see gleaming chainrings. About 20 minutes of work with a bucket of water, citrus degreaser, and a car polishing spray, and voila, instant clean bike.

So satisfying.

I brought two small and one large bottle at the urging of the future missus - she knows how much I suffer in the heat, and with temps around 80 when we started, it wasn't going to be cool. The large bottle I took out of the freezer - one 32 ounce block of ice. Great for the first hour or so, then it quickly gets lukewarm like the other bottles.

We talked about a flat race's need for speed. It's critical to be able to go fast in those races since, to a certain extent, low weight and climbing fitness doesn't do much when you're trucking along at 35 mph on the flats.

We went out at a medium pace but on the first rises my friend went pretty hard. I simply couldn't follow and dropped back a bit. This happened on any rise over 100 meters long. In between the little climbs we chatted about the upcoming race and this need for speed.

I pointed out that going hard up the climbs doesn't really work on speed. It works on power and it makes you mentally tough but it doesn't really work on speed. Climbing and working hard is great but it doesn't simulate sitting in the field at high speeds.

My friend, whose schedule only allows him to ride on his own or with one other rider, asked the natural question, "Well then how do you work on speed?"

I told him to use terrain and wind to get that "sitting in" effect. In other words you go hard when the wind isn't in your face and the road is either flat or slight downhill.

I did a couple efforts to demonstrate. On a slight rise followed by a pretty fast descent I did a pull. It was a bit harder than I anticipated as the slight rise went for about 200 meters more than I remembered. But the downhill was good - we hit over 40 mph and my friend got a taste of "going fast without a field".

He stayed on my wheel but had to work unusually hard.

Shortly after I did the same thing on another section of road.

My friend, on this one, had problems staying on my wheel.

As he realized, once the pace hotted up over 32-33 mph, he found himself in difficulty.

We analyzed this, both of us being that sort of people. First we agreed that we both got from point A to point B in the same amount of time - after all, we were still riding together after 45 minutes or so. He pointed out that he climbs faster but that I was making up all the time on the flats and descents. He felt that being ahead on the climbs seemed preferable to chasing afterwards.

This is true, I countered. But the crit you're doing is flat. And in a flat crit, climbing well doesn't matter. Speed does.

He agreed.

My lack of fitness started to reveal itself around this time and although I managed to do a big uphill sprint, I was cooked for the next hour as I tried to recover and get my body temperature down a bit. My friend obliged and pulled us along for a while.

I decided to dig a bit more as I didn't want to hold him up too much. We were going up these annoying little climbs, one after another, short, irritating things. I shifted to keep my cadence pretty steady, held the tops, and grimly hung on. Except for one more effort, my heart rate was as high as it would get during the whole ride - I was really hurting. I had decided to ignore the PowerTap and work a lot harder than I thought prudent, see what happens. That's what training rides are for after all.

Of course that's when my friend eased up, dropped back next to me, and asked me if the PowerTap made me set limits simply based on the readings, without relying on instinct.

Good question, that. Remember when everyone learned about heart rate zones? You'd be on a ride and people would suddenly sit up - "I can't go harder, I have to stay in Zone 2." Or whatever Zone.

I never learned about Zones. I just rode, noted what my heart rate was, and decided I was good (or bad) depending on how my heart rate related to my speed.

Essentially my friend was asking if I had turned into one of these Zone riders.

I was a bit cooked after a lot of upper limit race pace effort but I tried to explain that the PowerTap was new enough that I didn't take its readings as gospel. I have to admit though that, on this day, every time I felt pressure, I was at 157-158 bpm. Every time I felt like I was going to blow I was at 163-164. And the three or four minutes before he eased to ask me that question, I was pegged at 170.

I tried to tell him that I've been learning about myself using this thing. Based on numbers I've seen (and heard), I figured my sprint would be anything over about 600-800 watts. I guessed that 300+ would be climbing short hills, 250+ would be any prolonged effort, and 100-150 easy/normal.

But in one race where I never jumped, I was over 1000 watts and I never even sprinted! This was a revelation for me - if I have any reserves, my sprint doesn't start till I'm over 1000 watts.

So I told my friend that, no, I don't allow it to limit me. I do note unusual readings or unexpected things (like that 1000 watt non-sprint).

We started rolling back down the fast Route 136 but I didn't have much left. I could do a short pull but nothing significant. My efforts, the rising temperatures, and my lack of long rides really started to tell. (As an aside I was having problems pulling at 400 watts.)

Just before we split up to head our separate ways we came to a favorite section of mine. Perversely it's a stretch of road next to a cemetery. It was a slight downhill (imperceptible but it has to be since I always feel good on it), it is a 30 or so mph road, and there's always some traffic.

On this day there was a little bonus - a police speed trailer.

You have to understand that I love these things. If I see one on a good stretch of road (i.e. sprintable road, sprintable direction), I'll actually sprint past it to try and get it to read over 40. And then turn around and try again. I remember one training ride where I got all of 20 minutes away from my house and then spent about 20 minutes killing myself to break 40 mph. I never did (unideal sprint conditions) but it was a really fun ride.

Anyway the light before the stretch had just turned green and I had a couple ideal leadout vehicles in mind. The first, an SUV, got going before I could get ready. The second, a full size pick up truck with sheets of plywood in the back angled like a big ramp (i.e. a perfect drafting vehicle), went by too. I hesitated, thinking the next car was just behind. But the car backed off, presented with two riders riding single file on the shoulder.

I looked, saw the car slow, and jumped about as hard as I could. I think I was in a 15, did a crazy hard effort to get to speed, double shifted into the 13, stomped on the pedals again, and then popped it into the 12. I tried but simply could not get to the pickup truck. As I approached the speed trailer I veered to the very edge of the road, trying to hit the radar beam as straight on as possible (if you hit it at an angle it reads low - tip for speeders).

I waited for the truck to go by, desperately trying to extract more speed out of the bike. The speedometer read 38 as the truck approached it. I waited... and waited. And finally the truck went by.

37.

Arg. Crushing. Oh agonizing. I so wanted it to go the other way. I almost stopped pedaling but instead tried one more feeble dig. I had nothing left and sat up.

Well, I'll give myself this - I had been riding over two hours in temperatures from about 80 to perhaps 85-88 degrees. I was overheated enough to have some chills.

My friend and I split and I soft pedaled, trying to get my body to recover from what it perceived to be a totally stupid effort in the uncomfortably hot conditions. It screamed at me enough that I totally eased.

I fiddled with the PowerTap - I had to hit close to 1400 watts and wanted to see what I actually did. I had made a monster effort and my best sprint ever on the PowerTap was around 1480 watts. I scrolled through the menu, selected Max Watt.

1531 watts.

Woo-hoo. Or as my friend and colleague says, "Boo-yah!"

Another PowerTap revelation.

I struggled home, barely able to break 200 watts, my heart rate refusing to go over 160. My body was completely overheated, my legs exhausted.

I was totally cooked. Well done. Poke me with a fork.

But man was I happy.

Story - Paul Ruhlman Memorial Criterium, Meriden, CT

In an earlier post I allude to the Paul Ruhlman Memorial Criterium in Meriden, CT. This was a classic downtown criterium course, around an odd shaped block containing a shopping center. The course started on a wide road which curved to the left. A right turn took the field onto a narrower two lane road, nothing bad, which led to the second right turn. This dumped the field out onto a massive road resembling an aircraft runway. A firehouse halfway down the straight meant that, every now and then, a race would be neutralized for a lap while the firemen responded to an emergency call. The race left the wide backstretch by turning right onto another narrower, two lane road. A short time later they'd take another right, this time into a very narrow turning lane, only one lane wide. With curbs on both sides, this was the trickiest part of the course.

The wide, left curving mainstraight hinted at massive field sprints but this rarely happened. Instead, due to the bottleneck in the fourth and last turn, the sprints were typically strung out affairs contested by half a dozen racers.

Many of the racers were actually won by breakaways, that fourth turn making it harder for a field to keep a head of steam.

On probably the last day I raced there I showed up fresh from my first true team races. I had my first leadout man and we'd worked well together in both training and in a couple races. Mike and I seemed to mesh well together, his very astute pack riding skills much better than mine. After doing some training at SUNY Purchase he gave up going for field sprints and instead set about imitating the best leadout men of the current professional sprint team of Panasonic.

At our first race where we actually showed up with a plan, we did some really good racing, controlling the tempo of the race from 5 laps till the finish. We didn't do any sort of massive 5 mile leadout train - we weren't that strong. Instead, we sent off team members on breaks, knew they'd get caught, and used the chasing field as a massive substitute team.

Prior to the final laps we also practiced our leadout on a prime. I won the prime by about 50 meters - the field apparently gave up after my 40 mph leadout - and we felt like we could win.

We literally dominated the last five laps of the race - if one of our guys wasn't off the front, we were either attacking the field or sprinting for the finish. As the designated sprinter, I frantically followed my leadout man through holes I didn't even know existed. I brushed more than a few riders in the last couple laps as Mike squeezed through holes barely there, trusting me to somehow get through before the tiny holes closed.

Someone tried to get Mike's wheel at about one to go, his skewer ripping spokes from my front wheel, pulling one spoke clear through the hub. I thought the wheel might collapse but since it didn't I sprinted. My legs were blown though and I couldn't repeat my dominating prime sprint.

All I could manage was a third or fifth or something. I don't remember the place but it wasn't first. Any other place, that day, was a crushing disappointment.

We left the race with mixed emotions. The hard work by the team worked wonders but we didn't win. We felt that it was possible to win though and that was inspiring.

With this race in mind we came to Meriden. We didn't have the same full team but we had a lot of the key players. Mike and I were the 2 lap to go crew, we had a guy for 4 or 5 to go, and a couple to do work during the race.

Apparently our teamwork at the earlier races had started to garner some interest. Now, when racers came up to me during the warm-up, they weren't asking if I'd been training or if I was feeling good. Instead they asked a simple question.

"So who's here with you today?"

Yeah baby!

The weather wasn't very cooperative - a sudden downpour soaked everyone a couple races earlier and created two big puddles, each about 4 or 5 inches deep - one on the inside of Turn 1, the other on the inside of Turn 4. When the 3s started racing the puddles were still there. Initially everyone avoided them but as the race went on, we rode through them, the water a welcome distraction from the heat and the hot pace.

We lost all our team guys - I simply remember everyone was either out or hanging on for dear life. Only Mike, myself, and a third guy remained. The third guy chased things, tried to string things out at 5 to go, but the field was too anxious and he ended up pulling out, blown, and disappointed for not being able to do any more.

This forced Mike to the front a lap earlier than we wanted. With two to go he had to make a big effort to keep things together. We hit the bell with Mike stomping the pedals at the front, me on his wheel, and a whole field of hungry racers strung out behind me.

We flew through the first turn, then the second. Then Mike, his elbows out, his head hanging, suddenly pulled off.

"Sorry Aki I'm dead"

He was totally fried, his face red, his worried look indicative of what lay behind me. I struggled to comprehend how Mike, an all conquering super powerful leadout guy, could blow up. But he did. And I had to deal with it.

I didn't know what to do so kept some pace - I remember keeping the pace below 28 mph as I didn't want to go too fast and burn myself out. At the same time I didn't want to slow below 25 mph and invite swarms of racers to fly around me.

I could feel two racers by my side, my arch rivals during the early training series races, friendly competitors during the bigger summer races. Tom and Brian. Both dwarfed me as they were over six feet tall. They had more a Cipollini sprint - go from far out and go really fast. Mine was more an Abdu sprint - short, viscious. The three of us respected each others' finishing speed and they knew I was antsy to do well at this race. They didn't want to pass me so they'd sort of flared out next to me to try and make the front as wide as possible. I guess others were doing the same thing because no one wanted to pass me riding up the long backstretch to the third turn.

You ever go by a cop on the highway and you're doing 67 in a 55? You slow a bit (not too much else the cop will get suspicious), act innocent, and pray that the cop doesn't move.

I was in that "pray" stage during the 200 meters leading to the third turn. I was just praying that the field wouldn't swarm around me. A rider or two attacking was fine - that would be my new leadout - but 30 guys going up the outside would be bad.

My nerves wouldn't allow me to stay below 28 mph so I started to accelerate as I approached that third turn. I was sitting farther and farther forward on my saddle, ready to respond to any attack, to any jump. I was hyper-aware of the tires thrumming just to my sides, painfully aware that I was the point man, the sacrificial racer, the one that would lead but not win.

With my adrenaline building I cruised through the third turn, only the short straight before the last turn. I was out of the saddle, rocking the bike, trying to make it even wider than its 41 cm bars. Brian and Tom obliged and moved out just a touch - the three of us probably took 10 feet of road.

I remember looking down to see if any of the wheels looked like they were about to attack. It seemed okay.

We approached the last turn, a puddle still covering half of the one lane. I knew that someone would make a suicidal bid by sprinting into the turn, hoping to catch everyone off guard, and fly out of the turn for a spectacular win.

On the other hand, I preferred a sprint which starts with a big jump. If I'm not being led out at 40 mph, I want to start sprinting at 18 mph. My jump, my acceleration, is my strength. A jump doesn't help if you're already going sprint speed.

My internal alarm bells, already ringing since the backstretch, were now doubling in strength. I felt numb with adrenaline.

Something had to happen.

I debated within myself on the best tactics for this moment. Scenarios went roaring through my head and I thought of each new idea quickly, discarding them as quickly as I thought about them. I literally had only seconds to think, I was getting scared that we'd be swarmed, but my frantic mind always came back to one tactic. It was the only thing to do. So I did it.

I slowed.

I actually slowed to about 18 or 20 mph. I coasted first, then lightly touched the brakes. Sort of a pretend "I'm afraid of the deep water in the corner" kind of slow.

As I slowed I could hear somewhere sort of far behind me tires swooshing on the pavement. That someone was out of the saddle and sprinting like mad.

I quickly looked left and right - no gaps to the curbs, Tom and Brian and a couple others effectively took up all the room now. No one could get through.

I kept my pedestrian pace.

Suddenly brakes. Yelling. Metal crashing. And a huge stack up behind me somewhere. That sprinting racer, the suicidal attacker, just detonated into the back of a whole lot of racers.

I jumped like my life depended on it.

I had to get a gap so that I could use my multi-jump sprint. I knew I could jump, draw out a couple guys, and then jump again. But if the whole field was on my wheel it might be hard to pull it off. I had to isolate perhaps 10 or so racers. I got up to speed pretty quickly, shifting a couple times to my 14, and looked down. Two front wheels there. I sprinted while still looking down, knowing that if I eased a hair they'd start to come around.

I eased a hair, keeping it in the 14. My trusty bar end shifter allowed me to shift when everyone else had to sit to shift. My slowdown tactic was a direct result of this knowledge and I hoped that it would make a difference.

They started to come around.

I jumped again. Hard. Popped it into the 13.

The wheels moved back behind me.

I eased a hair, still going hard, moving back to the 14, my favorite "from speed" jump gear.

They started to come around.

And I jumped again. As hard as I could. Bam. 13. Bam. 12.

Kept sprinting, kept accelerating. I was starting to fade hard, my whole body rigid with effort, flinging my bike side to side a la Abdujaporov, the line was coming up quickly.

I threw my bike, the two guys next to me doing the same. I'd beaten one by a half wheel, the other by perhaps a wheel.

An incredible victory.

Both Tom and Brian, good guys to a fault, congratulated me on the sprint, patting me on the back, rounding the first turn. I tried to respond but could barely breathe and just nodded. They were actually going faster than I was at the line but I happened to be in front of them.

A perfectly timed sprint.

Then someone yelled out, "Great second place!"

Second place?

Apparently some joker had almost lapped the field. I remembered him attacking but thought he came back. I guess not.

My smile crumbled.

Well at least I got second. And man was it an awesome sprint.

We waited for the results and after a few minutes the announcer's voice came over the PA.

"Second place is Tom... Third place is Brian..."

"... and fourth is Aki..."

Fourth?!

I went to the officials.

Apparently there were three finish lines from the three different years they used the road. The bright finish line wasn't the finish line. It was a more faded one about 20 feet away.

I'd sprinted to the wrong line.

But with a jumble of city type road markings (the finish line was in the middle of an intersection with crosswalks, stop lines, and various utility work markings), inconsistent pavement patches (some dark, some light, and cracks everywhere), and wet and dry bits coloring even identical patches of pavement differently, I didn't see it.

The announcer, a Cat 2 racer, actually argued with the officials.

He yelled across the street at them, "If you ask me, he won the sprint!"

But rules are rules, right? Sometimes the rules really bite. This time was one of them. If they scored on one finish line and I sprinted to a different one, well, I lose.

I was so frustrated I didn't know what to do. I actually sat down and cried. I shoved my bike across the parking lot, the poor thing bouncing off a curb and crashing onto the pavement.

Tom looked like he didn't know what to do. I could see him, his eyes sympathetic, but really, there was nothing to do. He came over and told me he thought I won the sprint, that in his mind I did.

Brian came over too. Obviously I was distraught but he also told me that he considered me the winner of the field sprint. He generously offered to exchange prize money but I said it was okay, it wasn't necessary.

After I gathered myself I went to the announcer to pick up my prize money. I figured I might as well collect it and get out of there. The annoucer's a good guy, a good sprinter, and we had some terrific battles at SUNY Purchase. My fastest sprints were against him or another guy and we'd always be so close we'd have to throw our bikes and then argue who won.

"You won."
"No, you won."
"No, I really think you won."

A good guy.

He gave me an envelope and told me quietly that he thought I won and that I'd done a great sprint to beat the whole field after leading them out.

I looked in the envelope. I think there was $40, maybe $45 in it. I looked at him and asked him if there really was a Paul Ruhlman Fund. He replied there was.

"Here, put this money to that fund." I held out the envelope.
"Are you sure? You earned this."
"It's okay. Paul helped me when I started racing."

I walked away.

I had no idea if he'd just pocket the money. But at some level I didn't care. I knew, deep down inside, that I'd ridden one of my best sprints ever.

I was back at my car, sat inside, sullen, moping.

An older couple walked up to the car. They didn't look like bike racers. I wondered briefly if they were lost.

They asked if I was the one that gave the prize money to the Paul Ruhlman Fund.

I replied that I did.

They introduced themselves.

"You don't know who we are but we are Paul's parents."

I stood up. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I didn't know what to say.

"(The announcer) told us where you were. We really appreciate your donation. It's a wonderful thing you did."

I guess there really was a Fund. And the announcer guy really did give it to them.

They asked me how I knew him and I told them that I really didn't, that he just helped me a few times. And that when I heard about the accident I was shocked. I didn't understand death back then, and in some ways, I still don't. All I knew at that time was that it was permanent. In some way that I hope never to understand, it wasn't a good permanent for these parents.

I think the mother was crying a bit. That's understandable. I don't remember if the father did, and I don't remember if I was. But after they left I felt a lot better about my sprint.

It still ranks as one of my best ever race sprints.

But now it meant just that much more.