Racing - June 15, 2010 - @TuesdayTheRent

The hard-for-me recent riding schedule has started getting the better of me. I've been finding it harder to wake up refreshed, even when I go to bed exhausted and sleep a full night's sleep. I'm getting easily frustrated with minor things, whether it be a rider "hogging" the front of a paceline, a car running a stop sign, or someone driving 15 mph below the speed limit on a local road. In normal situations I'm okay with that stuff, writing it off to (respectively) ignorance, carelessness, or fear. But now, well, I think "Come on, get with it!"

I've also been forcing myself to eat because oftentimes I don't feel hungry. I realized this the other day, and I also realized this is what happens to me when I'm riding and racing a lot.

The last time this happened? In a previous life, probably in the mid 90s.

Finally my legs have started to fatigue a bit, responding a little slower, with a little less snap. They respond, and keep responding, but lack a bit of freshness. It's the summer doldrums, something I also last experienced fully about 15 years ago.

Talking with other riders, my situations seems sort of common. I heard talk of one rider taking all of July and August off. Another stopped riding almost altogether.

It seems that I'm balancing at the edge of form and fatigue. In one sense I'm feeling great on the bike. I can make efforts, recover before I get shelled, and keep doing it over and over and over. My sprints, although consistently 300 watts lower than my best trainings sprints, have been enough to garner me placings on a regular basis. And even when I'm tired I can rev up the engine and do a hard pull.

But my eyes feel bleary all the time, I rest when I can, and I feel a certain level of inactivity in general.

I suppose one way to summarize all this is that my team shorts are now baggy.

Yep, my lycra, skin tight shorts are now baggy.

It's kind of annoying. The whole reason to wear cycling shorts is to avoid the chafing, the rubbing. But I'm finding that when I get up off the saddle, I can feel my shorts sliding around. Wrinkles. Bagginess. Discomfort.

It really annoyed me on my long ride to Bethel. I felt like I had diapers on, not sleek racing shorts. Every time I stood up I could feel my shorts sagging, the padding dropping, the wrinkled fabric on my thighs.

A long time ago I was riding with a teammate who had worked really hard on getting fit. I noticed that his shorts grippers hung loose on his legs. The Missus and I (she was the future Missus at that point) always joked about his "baggy shorts", like, "I can't believe his shorts were baggy, he was so fit."

Well, now I'm the one with baggy shorts.

Along with bleary eyes, an underlying layer of fatigue, low appetite...

And good legs.

Yeah, don't forget about the legs.

Tuesday morning ended up an exercise in frustration. I forgot stuff. I had a dirty bike with bar tape unraveling on both ends. Even pulling into a parking spot at work ended up wrong - I'd brought my bike in the trunk so I could fix the tape and clean the drivetrain, but I backed into the spot (like I normally do).

The bushes behind the car would prevent me from pulling out my bike.

So I had to turn the car around. Frustrated, and knowing that the lot doesn't get very full, I parked kind of crooked, almost in the next spot over. I didn't care. I yanked out my bike, grabbed my stuff, and went into the store.

Luckily the day improved my mood. I bonded with the cats under the building. The white male sat outside, in the bushes, a spitting image of our Hal. Normally he's either out of sight or he's inside, and to see him in the bright daylight... it was unusual. Better yet, he was waiting for me when I emerged from under the building, peering at me intently. I fumbled with the camera (I take pictures almost daily) and managed to get a shot or three before he decided to move back a bit.

The white cat, outside. This is the closest I've gotten to him outside.

Hal, inside. We figure Hal is White's son.

I ate (forced myself), drank (okay, I was thirsty), and tried to be nice and not frown at everyone. In a nice slow period I cleaned the drivetrain and then taped the bars. Refreshing, to finish that.

I had planned on putting on white bars and a white saddle, because it was after Memorial Day, but I decided to stick with black. The white saddle, although lighter, had fragile rails, and I didn't want to break it in, say, the Harlem Crit. The reason for no white tape? Frankly, I forgot it in my stressed out morning.

I stood around a little before 5 pm, chomping at the bit. I normally leave at 5 for the Rent, 30 minutes early. My boss noticed me pacing and told me to leave early. I grabbed my stuff and left, after letting the Missus know that I had to go home to get my SRM (I forgot that too).

I jetted off in my blue car ("hot little car" as described by a fellow racer), carefully driving within reasonable limits (5-10 over, yes really). I made good time to I-91, and as I got ready for the fun, long sweeping entrance ramp...

I braked.

Traffic was at a complete standstill.

I spent a bit of time calling the Missus, who checked the traffic. The blockage seemed to break up shortly after this entrance ramp so I stayed the course. Although initially frustrating, I fell back into my "This is the way it is" mode; this felt better than getting all stressed out.

I got to the Rent with time to spare, but I really didn't warm up much. I felt an immense weariness in my legs, and I knew that I had to do some big efforts to open up my legs.

Problem was that I really didn't want to make those efforts. So I skipped them, tooling around until the A race lined up. After all, I'll be making those efforts in the race, and mentally it's much less taxing to be have to make the efforts.

Holy Pin Job, Batman!
(14 now. Note the "Rent" label on the number.)

Unusually, I had more than just SOC for company. Dave and TJ also showed up, and Lance hopped in after dropping out of the B race (he entered it to warm up). Dave wanted to get some action going in the A race; I wanted to work on longer-than-sprint efforts; everyone else was along for the ride.

Our plan going into the race - Dave would attack at the gun, I'd warm up while sitting in, and when Dave got caught, I'd counter and make some longer-than-sprint efforts.

Dave attacked as soon as we got rolling, dragging, eventually, three riders with him.

For a while it looked like we'd get stuck on Phase One of our plan - the part where Dave attacks. His break ended up gaining almost half a lap on the field, and for a while I thought it'd actually go the distance.

Too many riders had missed it though, and there were others in the field looking for a good workout. The pace ratcheted up a bit, then again. And again. At some point we lost Lance - his legs were cooked from the CT Stage Race, as were a couple other CTSR veterans.

One, Ben, yelled to go around him, fearing that he'd gap me off the back. He made it to the finish though, so he was fine.

I realized you could see some of those hard miles on his legs - he resembled a ProTour rider in body fat, whereas I resemble... a crit racer.

Anyway, with the big chase of Dave's first break, I dropped back a little each time, until I was hanging on for dear life at the back.

Dave and his group started coming back. I was supposed to counter after he got caught. But I couldn't counter from the back of the field, not here, not against these guys. I made some big efforts to move up, but only succeeded in cooking myself as I tried to hit the front part of the group.

Of course, that's about when we caught Dave and the break. I was well back, too far back, and dying.

Dave actually responded to other attacks in the interim, as did SOC. TJ kept busy marking the chases. I suffered while the team waited for me to launch my counter-move.

Finally, with a three rider break dangling off the front, my legs pulled themselves together. I moved up, watching the field chase in vain.

I launched hard just before the tailwind section, using my jump to get up to a good speed as fast as possible. 30-odd seconds at 31+ mph and I tagged onto the back of the break, useless now, my legs shattered by the effort.

Okay, now for the work. I wanted to contribute to the break now, but I could barely feel my legs, numb with lactic acid. They wouldn't respond, my upper body felt numb.

Right, this is what it's like when I'm suffering.

A minute later, unable to do anything except skip my turn pulling, we got caught.

Dave and SOC promptly launched a few salvos of their own, and I receded into anonymity, sitting in the field.

A little recovered, I wanted to go again. Two guys were pretty far up the road and I knew that it'd take more than 30 seconds of effort to catch them. I wanted to launch a little less aggressively, then sit and settle into a highly uncomfortable effort. I hoped that I'd bridge up to them. I gave myself a lap of effort before I'd blow, and it seemed remotely possible to make it across the big gap before I exploded.

On the main straight, the field getting a bit wide, I went up the left side, doing a sub-maximal jump (Mr SRM tells me 950 watts, versus the 1150 I did in my bridge effort). The bell started ringing - prime lap!

One or two riders thought about responding, but this was me, the guy who is pretty useless off the front.

They let me go.

I stood a bit out of the first turn and then tried to settle down. The two riders in front looked totally out of reach, and if the field chased me, I'd be in serious trouble...

But they weren't. I kept checking, disbelieving, and it seemed they were comfortable following wheels. I stayed low, kept the power on, and...

Faded hard.

I pedaled squares past the start/finish, a lap after I launched myself. I managed to average about 28.6 mph for the lap. I can't imagine going 32 mph in a time trial!

The field caught me, streaming by, counters going right and left. I had been thinking I could just accelerate and get back in, but the ferocity of the counters surprised me.

Luckily the field wasn't quite so gung-ho, and I managed to slot in at some point, safely grabbing a wheel.

As we hit the final five laps (I missed the 5 to go card, but saw the 4 to go), I started thinking of making a move. Maybe launch a lap to go? Maybe sit in and launch on the backstretch?

Somewhere on 2 to go I stood to accelerate and almost collapsed onto the bars - both my quads seized momentarily, throwing me forward. I had to force my legs to keep turning so I wouldn't flip over the bars.

A little disconcerted by the turn of events, I turned to someone, I think it was Dave, maybe it was just a random rider in the field, and yelled out my predicament.

"I can't sprint, I'm cramping!"

Of course, that was when I stood. Sitting was okay so I powered to the front. I rationalized it by thinking that I couldn't just sit up in the middle of the field, not on the last curve, but I could pull off cleanly on the main straight.

Doug M marked me of course, hoping maybe for another big leadout (I led him out to a win once). I waved him (and everyone else) past, wiggled my elbow, did everything I could to tell everyone that they should ride around me.

Aidan launched hard (probably because he was going to do it anyway, not because of my frantic elbow flapping); one rider bridged, but Aidan powered away to win the race. After a few seconds, everyone followed.

I rolled around, slowly, finishing just in front of the riders on their cool down lap.

The Missus, with Mrs SOC, waited by the sidelines. Dave and SOC went for some cool down laps. Me, I didn't want to pedal the bike any more than I had to, and, right then, I didn't have to pedal nothin'. So I didn't.

We hung out for a bit with some of our favorite fellow racers. One of the things that makes the Rent so much fun is the combination of the relaxed racing atmosphere, the more intimate fields (we all kinda sorta know each other, kinda), and therefore the camaraderie before and after each event.

Just before we left the venue, I picked up socks. Better late than never, I suppose. I have yet to use them, but it shouldn't be too long.

Socks. Got 8 pairs.

So now, I think, I need to rest a bit. Take a break. Debate Harlem. A rainy Harlem would be tough, dangerous, and not really my cup of tea. A dry one... well now.

Here's to a dry June 20th.

Training - June 14, 2010 - Weaknesses Percolating

Monday, after a couple days of racing, I rushed home from work to get my bike and gear for the Monday night group ride from Granby Bikes. Although a no-dropper kind of ride, it's evolved into a "go hard in sections, wait, repeat" kind of ride. This works for me because I can bury myself if I want, recover, and do it again.

Except for the most interesting descents (i.e. unknown and tipped to be fun by a ride leader) and when I want to string out the group for safety's sake, I tend to follow wheels. This means allowing gaps to open between different groups, and, when the moment feels right, bridging across from one group to another.

So, although I may make some really hard efforts, I try and do it while staying within the confines of the group.

With two races in the previous two days, I hoped to make some efforts on this ride, make it three good days in a row. Combined with a Rent race Tuesday, and maybe a Bethel on Wednesday, I could have my own five day, four crit mini stage race.

I got to the ride barely on time, and left behind stuff like the helmet cam (still wet inside from the wet Saturday Nutmeg State Games race), my mini-pump (forgot), saddle bag (ditto), every light I own (ditto), even fluids.

The latter I remedied by grabbing a bottled water from the cooler in the car (I haven't unpacked the car since Saturday, so it had all the stuff in it I brought to Nutmeg). It wasn't cold but it was water, and I stuck it in my jersey pocket. That, along with a bit of left over Powerade Zero in the single bottle on the bike and I'd be okay.

Incredibly I was out of team kits, at least the jerseys, so I wore the bright yellow Leader's Jersey (and shoe covers). Long sleeve, just as the sun started beating down, but I've been feeling a bit cold in general (lack of fuel?), and I knew it'd be cooler at the end of the ride.

We started at a reasonable pace on the Rails To Trails path so I used the opportunity to dump all the water into the one bottle. This left me with diluted Powerade Zero, which, I have to admit, tasted pretty bad.

I also had a Hammer gel around that time, not wanting to bonk (and me feeling cold meant my body was running out of fuel).

The route took us into Massachusetts, to Granville, and up a couple climbs. We'd roll back on fast, slightly descending roads. I hoped to use the bumpy terrain at the beginning to do a few bridge efforts, planned on going hard on the climbs, and then, to finish off the ride, do some speedwork on the way back.

I have to admit that although most of the riders don't race, they are pretty freakin' strong. So, yeah, for the first half of the ride, I got in a bridge effort or two. I also did some aero tuck experiments with the tall wheels (Jet 6 - 9) - they seem to descend at sub-sonic speeds okay (under 45 mph). I have a feeling that for really fast descents I'd want to use a non-aero front wheel.

When we hit a long-ish climb in MA, I found myself at the front, leading the core group of faster riders. I realized that my legs weren't all there, and as the climb continued, the riders, in ones and bunches, all rolled by me.

It wasn't like I was going that easy - I was turning over about 210 watts average. Okay, that's what pros do when they bonk, but for me, that's just below threshold. These other guys, these non-racers, they were simply going harder than that.

Harder than I could go.

I did try a Stephen Roche Bridge, when he bridged a solid minute gap in about 1k of a climb in the Tour, but my effort, with no Tour at stake, ended after 50 seconds of 340+ watt pedaling; I managed to catch just one rider.

With no one else in sight, I eased. The guy I passed, Mike, caught and passed me, and he kind of grinned.

"What was that all about?" he asked.
"I was trying to bridge."
"It's a long hill."
"Yeah, I know," I replied glumly.

Mike rode away from me, leaving me to plod along on my own.

I thought of the hints of thought I had about doing road races, of seeing how I stacked up on the hills. I realized that this is about as hard as I can go on this hill, today, in a semi-fatigued state.

It wasn't fast.

Entering a race with a hill in it would simply be an exercise in futility, unless I could do some work for the team before the hills started. I think I'd be more use in the feed zone, frankly.

I managed to drag myself to the top, at the last regroupment point, and found, to my dismay, that most of the group had made it there already.

Mentally I definitely scratched doing road races.

We started back to the shop, the slightly descending road fast and more to my liking. I hung back, getting a feel for the group's desire for speed. Although they were obviously better than me on the hills, I still had some speed left in my legs (helped by the by-far-the-tallest wheels on the ride).

I saw a gap open in front of me, grow, and suddenly it resembled a chasm.

I waited for a bit for the gap to shrink, but it kept opening. I had to bridge - simply "chasing" across wasn't going to be possible, not with my legs twanging, threatening to cramp. I committed and made yet another effort.

I bridged up, kinda sorta barely, and recovered while the riders up front took their turns pulling. On my pulls I pulled off pretty quickly, my legs twinging a bit.

Pacelines get interesting because they reveal each individual rider's strengths (or weaknesses). Some guys were pulling a bit fast; others a bit slow. Downhills were the trickiest - the lead rider has to pull pretty fast. If you hear coasting or braking, you're going too slow.

Towards the end of the route I let myself percolate to the front, and, on the last long stretch of road, I buried myself in a leadout type effort. I blew myself up, twinging pretty badly, everyone passing me on the short rise at the end of the straight, but it felt good to go fast, to put pressure on my legs.

Everyone chatted a bit at the end of the ride; I felt zonked though, and, a bit spaced out, left the lot before I got eaten alive by mosquitoes.

Before I left, though, I asked if the guys would be coming out to the Rent next Tuesday. They replied in the affirmative so that ought to be fun.

Next up: race at the Rent, Day 4 of my mini stage race.

Racing - June 13, 2010 Whaling City Cyclone Crit, New London, CT

This morning, and last night, to be honest, I was not really thinking about racing today. I'd gotten totally soaked at the Nutmeg State Games, my bike was filthy, my car was full of wet clothing, I didn't eat much after the race (a piece of chicken breast and some salad), and I felt exhausted. I hammered out some thoughts for the blog and then, unbeknown to the Missus, snuck off to bed. I wanted to read a bit about Rommel, but after maybe a half page, I put the book down and fell asleep.

About eight hours later, I woke up briefly, asked the Missus what time it was, and fell back asleep.

About eleven hours after I fell asleep, I suddenly woke up, refreshed and hungry. The Missus and I wanted to go out to eat breakfast, but when she checked the forecast, she discovered something.

"Um, it says no rain from noon till 4."
"Where?"
"In New London. And your race is at 1:45."
"1:45?"
"1:45. We'd have to leave at, oh, about 11:15 to get there by 12:45."
"What time is it?"
"9:00"

I thought about it. I had no kits left. My bike was a mess. I had no hydration, no Powerade. My stuff was in my car, and it needed to get into the other one, because my car had room for just one person - the driver.

I hadn't eaten a lot the day before, and virtually nothing after the race, so I had very little fuel reserves. In fact, I was surprised I wasn't famished.

But, nonetheless, I decided we should try. We tossed my wet kit in the washer (speed wash), I pulled my bike out of the car, and we set out to eat breakfast.

Problem was that the two places we scouted out were really busy. So we went to the grocery store, bought a bunch of food, and made an early lunch (for me). Eggs, pasta, chicken, some cheese, a couple cups of coffee... and it was 11:45.

We tossed my stuff into her car, I kept running back inside for the next thing I forgot, and finally, at about 12, we were on our way. We'd barely make registration, if we did at all, which would/should close at 1:15.

With the Missus driving as fast as practicable, I changed in the car, even putting on my heart rate chest strap. I had my cycling socks, shoes (still damp, although we put them on the dryer shelf for a bit), everything.

I even wiped the dirt off my helmet.

We made it to the race with about 30 minutes to spare, which was good because registration closed at 30 minutes before the race. I registered, working closely with the registration woman (she filled out the info while I filled out my release - cut the registration time in half). I could even decline pins (I grabbed 14 of them on my last trip into the house). I got my race number and let out a mental sigh of relief.

All the stress of the morning, famished from lack of food, running late, not really having a plan, that all went out the door. We were here, I was registered (and dressed), and after using 13 of my 14 pins, I was even numbered.

Pins, baby, pins!

Now for the fun (and less stressful) part - the race.

Fortunately for me, unfortunately for the promoter, a relatively small field lined up for the start of the 3s. I attribute this to a few things.

First, the race costs some money. Money that's well spent, yes, but money. Pre-reg was $26, a totally reasonable entry fee. Unfortunately every weather report I saw online predicted a day of nasty thundershowers. This worked against the promoter - heck, even I didn't pre-reg.

The day of race stick was $10 more. Although not exorbitant, I'd have to think that a lot of racers who felt unwilling to register online for a thunderstorm type race probably felt like they didn't have a chance of doing well. And paying $26 for a short training ride, that's not very savvy.

Once pre-reg closed, and the weather forecast looked the same, I'm sure those same folks started making other plans.

"Been rained out, might as well use this down time to build up 'racing credit' with the family/spouse/girlfriend/whatever."

I'm sure there were a lot of guys scheduling chores, housework, other "rainy day stuff". After all, these credits really help when, out of the blue, you decide you really want to go race that crit that's in, say, New London.

So, on Sunday morning, when the forecast suddenly changed... well, those very nice racers who understand that racing isn't the center of the world (it isn't, really) suddenly found themselves stuck. They couldn't back out of their commitments so they had to call it a day, even if the pavement was bone dry.

Lucky for me, the Missus really enjoys watching me race. Plus her mom lives down that way. Plus we have really good friends down there. So any ideas of me hanging a yet-to-be-finished-painted screen door went right out the broken screen door, and we set off the New London.

Therefore I figure it was just the pre-reg folks plus a very few others (like me) who lined up for the start.

With my cornering problems in the last few races, I had only one more thing to try - tubulars at full pressure. I had been lowering my tubular tire pressures because of the wider rims, because I'd been doing that with the clinchers and their wider rims. However, I realized at some point that the tubulars don't rely on rim width for their cross sectional shape - they're sewn into shape, and they go to that shape when you pump them up. Any rim width changes really deal with strength and/or aerodynamics, not ride quality.

So I cranked the tubulars' pressure up to normal, like 130/140 psi front/rear.

Tires singing, I set off.

I had one minor disadvantage at the start - I hadn't seen the whole course. I hadn't ridden any of it, except the final straight (19 revs in a 53x14 - always figure out how far out you can go). I had no idea where the turns were, how hard they were, nothing. I just knew the last turn looked a tad sharp.

With six turns in one km, with one a long sweeping 180 (yet to be discovered by moi), relatively narrow roads everywhere, it seemed like it should be a really strung out race. The guy who won last year, Bill Yabroudy, tried to make the race live up to those expectations by attacking like a maniac at the start.

I scampered out of my back-of-the-pack start position, moved up about halfway before the first turn, dove left, then right, then left, and found myself hitting a wall of wind.

Okay, this wasn't going to be a cakewalk.

We flew around the 180 (a left), immediately swung right (an awesome feeling, to be heeled over to the left then to rise up and lay the bike over the right), and hit a slightly uphill straight.

My wheels bounced into all sorts of road hazards, manhole covers, brick crosswalks, potholes, everything.

We careened left for the short descent, narrow, and set up for a very, very tight left turn. When I first looked up, I thought the course went straight because I literally could not see how we could have turned left there.

But as we slowed down, I saw that, yes, there was maybe two lanes at our speed through this last turn.

We blasted through that, Yabroudy still at the front, still hammering, and started back up the gentle rise to the start/finish.

That's when my legs started screaming in pain.

This was hard.

I thought, well, it's got to be because I'm not warmed up. But lap after lap, as I slowly assimilated wind directions, racer tendencies, and cornering lines, I found I faced the same pain going up that stupid rise every lap. My legs would start to fade hard at the top of the hill, lactic acid burning up to my hips.

I had to use the slight downhill stretch after the first turn to maintain speed, then used the second and third turns to get back into the field. After fifth turn I'd come off a bit again, recovering by using the downhill (and last turn) to carve my way back into the field.

For 10 or so laps I suffered, hanging on for dear life, praying no one would leave a gap in front of them.

I was literally off the back of the field twice a lap for a couple laps, the Missus finally breaking through my lactic acid haze by yelling to move up.

So I moved up.

Like four spots.

And stayed there for a bit.

Then, when Yabroudy and company finally eased up a bit, the needle dropped out of my red zone.

I was back in the hunt.

Twenty laps went by, guys attacking one another. I got stuck a few times behind guys who had no idea how to corner, leaving gaps, slowing too much. Making mistakes once or twice is okay, but to repeat them lap after lap after lap, that's not good. I tried to get by those guys, but, unfortunately, to become a Cat 3 while not knowing how to corner requires a lot of strength. These guys were really, really strong, making up for their lack of skills. At this level you can still use brute force to overcome lack of skills or even tactics.

I wasn't as strong, so even though I may have gotten by them one or two times, I had a hard time staying in front of them. They'd make big moves in the wind or on the hill, moves that require enormous reserves, get back into good position, and gradually lose ground as they cornered their way to the back of the field.

However, although they left gaps, they could close them in spots where it took huge efforts to do so - like on the hill or on that slight uphill straight just before the downhill.

Although I initially thought they'd just go off the back, they never did because they were so fit. I guess that they didn't want to go off the back either, so they made the efforts to close the gaps they opened up.

Once I realized these guys weren't a threat to me finishing the race, I spent less energy trying to avoid them. I could sit behind them, let them come back to me, and ease around them as they screwed up yet another corner.

And since those guys tended to live in the middle third of the field, I avoided them by staying in the back third.

Life at the back, although a bit tough, stayed steady enough that I felt it a safe bet to stay there until the tail end of the race. For me that meant the last 2 or 3 laps, and that became my plan. Start moving up, take advantage of any easing up, and see what happens.

From about 8 to go the field really spread out on the hill, and although I could have moved up, I chose to stay at the back, grab some shelter, and build my reserves for the last few laps.

Finally, coming up on two to go, I had to make some moves. I followed a move up the right side, tucked in at about 15th spot, and hung on. I slowly lost some spots, but another move like that on the last lap and I was sitting maybe 10th.

The front of the field went ballistic as Yabroudy launched a spectacular attack at the bell, and I struggled to stay in position as the field went single file.

Then, as we approached the second last turn, the one leading to the downhill, I moved up on the inside a bit.

I knew I needed to be top 3 going into the last turn, and I felt comfortable leading out the field.

But as I powered down the downhill, I hadn't committed myself fully. I hesitated a moment, backed off just a bit, and realized that I wasn't going to make it to the front.

I tucked in about 10th.

Right behind one of the guys (I think) that I'd been trying to avoid the whole race, the guys who looked uncomfortable turning.

He dove into the turn and then into the ground as his front wheel slid out. At slower speeds he'd been okay, but at higher ones... he'd probably fall every single time.

My tubulars felt fine though, stuck like glue to the pavement. I hesitated a moment as I cleared the corner (and the rider below and to the right of me), jumped, shifted up a good 2 or 3 gears since I was under-geared, and jumped again.

As I built up speed I started passing guys, getting a couple of them right at the line. One was a totally spent Yabroudy, who'd exploded spectacularly just short of the line.

I counted the riders in front of me at the line.

Four.

I got 5th.

I cooled down, found the Missus. She was happy, I was happy. I wish I'd gone harder on that downhill - I had a lot left at the end of the sprint. But I was happy with my place.

We watched the P12 race. One huge moment was when the Kenda pro attacked hard on the downhill. He barely cleared the front of the field before the last turn, and his back tire did a lurid power slide as he exited the turn. Without hesitation he sprinted away from the line, his attack ultimately failing. There were a lot of attacks, a lot of chasing, and lots and lots of fast cornering.

The course is great for spectators, like great, great, great for spectators. From the first turn you can see the whole finishing straight plus turns 2, 3, 4, and 5. From the last turn (really Turn 7) you can see the whole downhill plus the finish straight. From the start/finish, you can see most of the downhill, the finish straight.

It's also a great course for (crit) racers. A real crit, with lots of diving into turns, lots of cornering line work, and a real battle for the final turn.

All in all a fantastic race. Definitely one for 2011.

The only disappointment of the race? My ContourHD had built up moisture inside the lens in the wet conditions yesterday, fogging it all up. So, although this would have been an awesome helmet cam race, I left the camera in the car. No helmet cam. I'm sorry. I may have to buy a second one, as a back up. And not use them in the rain anymore.

Racing - June 12, 2010 Nutmeg State Games Cat 3

So two days ago I looked at BikeReg for some reason, I think to map out my schedule in the next few weeks. I clicked on the Nutmeg State Games because it proclaimed that it would have state championships.

Which I thought were awarded at the New Britain Crit on July 11th.

I read the fine print after all the various asterisks and learned, to my dismay, that the Cat 3 race at Nutmeg would indeed by the State Championships.

I quickly asked my boss if I could leave early on Saturday - about noon - so I could race the States. With a daughter that has enough Nutmeg State Games t-shirts so she recognized mine as being from a different region, my boss readily agreed.

I hadn't really been planning on racing this weekend at all, because of the rainy forecast. I tend to skip rainy races because, frankly, I hate cornering and braking in the rain. I should train more in those conditions, but I don't. And I pay for it when it comes down on race day.

This State Championship realization meant I had to radically alter my preparation, or lack thereof. I'd raced Tuesday, yes, after a six day break from the bike, but didn't ride the following Wednesday or Thursday. I'd ridden one day in the last eight.

Friday I fueled up. If I ate enough Friday, I'd be okay Saturday, even if I went into the race a little underfed. If I didn't eat a lot of Friday, I'd have to watch my intake carefully, else I'd bonk.

I also needed to ride on Friday to loosen my legs up for a Saturday race, else my legs would feel like they were made from wood.

This is where I made my first mistake.

It was Friday evening, getting late, and I was tired. The Missus actually went to bed. I, being so committed to doing a decent ride, drank some caffeine before my "should-be-around-10 pm" ride.

Frankly, I drank it because I was sleepy. Caffeinated to the gills, I proceeded to:

- set up a cheap new DVD player
- hook it up to a stored TV that I had to set up first
- experiment with apparently broken cheap new DVD player
- hook up a nicer DVD player that I know works
- check that
- page through my race DVDs to watch some sprints and such (I chose the 2007 Tour and the 2003 Paris Nice DVDs)

Suddenly it was past 11 PM, I still had to ride, and I had to get up at 6:30 AM for work. I got to riding quickly.

A little past midnight I finally climbed off the bike. I'd done virtually no work on the bike, doing maybe a 150 watt ride, but I was sharp, alert, and maybe a little jittery.

In other words I wasn't about to fall asleep.

At 2 AM, hungry, I cooked up some pasta and had some chicken and stuff with it.

At THREE AM I finally felt a bit tired. Decided I should maybe lay down. I managed to fall asleep.

I got up at some point, hot, and went out to the couch to cool off. Once cooled, returned to bed.

At 6:30 AM the alarm went off. I went out, made some coffee, and... did nothing. I was sleepy, tired, exhausted, and I had a race at 2:10 PM.

My body started waking up at about 10 AM, starving, and I started eating everything in sight.

Of course, it then shut down, so I tried to grab a little nap in the office at about 11:30. But just as I started getting comfortable, it got busy, and suddenly it was time for me to leave.

Definitely not ideal preparation.

The Missus and I got to the race and it was pouring. I looked out the car a bit glumly. I would normally skip racing in the rain, but I wanted to win the frickin' CT State Championships, and I had to race in the rain to do it.

So racing in the rain it was.

I got soaked just getting the bike out of the car. I decided to go with the HED Bastognes - aluminum rims (I still haven't swapped the black KoolStops so I'd have no brakes on the carbon rimmed Stinger 6s) and lighter than the tank-like Jet 6 and Jet 9. I'd have to jump out of the last turn and I didn't feel like dragging all the extra weight around.

I did add some weight when I pinned my number onto my vest. Following my over-pin last Tuesday, I decided to go hog wild today too, using 13 pins again. You may laugh but let me tell you, I didn't hear or feel or even imagine a flapping number today.

Lotsa pins.
(Don't worry, I brought the pins to the race, didn't take them from someone else)

Properly kitted up (jersey, shorts, vest, head cover, long gloves, wool socks, shoes, helmet with cam) I set off on some miserable warm up laps. After a few minutes of decidedly low effort twiddling, I did a little jump. 900 watts, no effort, and the wheels responded nicely.

I went back to the start/finish to wait for my race.

A small field lined up, only a few brave souls willing to test themselves in the cool, rainy, windy conditions. For once I felt like a small field wasn't a handicap. Usually I view large fields positively - lots of shelter. But a small field would let race without worrying about maintaining position, and, with my new-found legs, I wasn't quite as concerned about getting shelled.

The race started off pretty aggressively, with an odd crash marring the first bit of the race. One guy went off to the right. Another, isolated with just one other rider, went off to the left. Apparently, on the left, a couple riders had a disagreement, and it ended with some unpleasantness off the bike.

I only learned of this later; I was too busy worrying about myself to wonder exactly why guys went down on opposite sides of the road, and why the two isolated guys went so far left. At the moment I figured one of them got stuck somehow - pedal, bar, cable, something - to the other.

I had other things to worry about, so I quickly forgot about the crash.

My big problem was that I couldn't corner to save my life. I know, it's been a theme, but today, in the wet, it actually worried me. I could feel both my front and rear tires breaking free of the pavement, skittish, and even did one of those "freeze, coast, and pray the bike doesn't fall over" moves in the very gradual Turn One.

I tried shifting my weight forward - but then the rear would slide. I shifted back. The front got light. I couldn't figure it out, couldn't even think of what I would do to make it better. Scaring myself left and right, I retreated out of the race's tactical situation.

After a few laps of experimentation I learned that I had to stay to the inside of the yellow line for Turns One and the hill, and that the Final Turn let me cross over the yellow line on the exit.

In order to assure myself of those positions through those turns, I decided to sit at the back.

For the rest of the race.

Now, a casual observer may think, "Oh, he's just sucking wheel". But I had to make huge efforts exiting each of those three trouble spots because I'd inevitably let a gap go. I wasn't saving much energy; I was just trying to stay upright.

I started thinking about the sprint. I mean, I thought about it before, but now I had some concrete information, like the weather, the pavement slickness level, who was around, stuff like that, I thought about it more.

Working backwards from the line (that's how you approach goals - you start at the goal and work backwards), I decided I absolutely had to be in the top three going into the last turn. The last time I raced here in the rain, I was third going into the final turn, and I'd used everything I had to get there. I'd used so much I was too cooked to sprint.

But it was okay because the guys behind me bumped and went down. I was in front of the carnage, and trust me, I'd rather be cooked and upright than fresh and on the deck.

Back to today's problem - to be top 3 in the last turn meant I had to be in the top 3 going into that last turn.

The problem was that the hill was really sketchy. I didn't think I could maintain a forward field position on the hill, and still have legs to get to the final turn and then sprint.

So I decided that I would wait until half a lap to go, after the hill, before I moved up. Until then I would sit towards the back.

This sounds great but there's only a couple hundred feet of pavement between the hill and the last turn. And although the field wasn't big, it wasn't tiny either.

I tried a standing effort at the top of the hill, to see if I really had the legs to make it. I got by a guy or two, realized that I had a good amount of power, and shut it down.

As the laps counted down, I tried to convince myself that I had a sound plan.

At 5 to go it took little effort to stick to the plan. At 3 to go, my argument still carried good weight.

But at 2 to go, looking up at all the guys in front of me, I started losing faith.

I started moving up on the main straight.

After half a lap of slightly uncomfortable riding, I got nowhere.

So I let myself drift back again.

Half a lap, then. No other way.

I steeled myself for the effort. I knew the field would leave a gap and that a committed effort would net me a position close to the front.

I hit the hill on the inside/left, knowing that everyone naturally drifts out to the right at the top. Then, as soon as I could, I stood and dug deep, staying left. I had to stutter this effort as a guy in front of me went, then thought about it, and then eased.

I went around him to the left, committed to my insane plan.

Committed. Insane. Get it?

Anywho...

I rolled up the side of the field, hard, and I heard guys yelling that someone was moving. Yeah. That would be me.

I actually rolled past the front of the field, and focused on the last turn. I didn't like that turn in the wet, and I didn't want to take myself out.

Going a bit slower than possible, I eased into the turn, and then out.

I started going, looking down to see who was on my wheel. I saw one black rim with white decals, but no one else.

I instinctively reverted to my leadout habits at SUNY Purchase, where I'd bait riders into jumping early, wait, and then bury them before the line.

So I did a reasonably convincing fake jump, sat back down, and waited.

Sure enough, the wheel moved over.

As he started his sprint, I waited. After a judicious, oh, half second, I started mine.

Problem was that I couldn't gain on the guy! He just stayed planted in front of me.

Note to self: when reverting to old habits, make sure I've practiced them more recently than, say, 17 or 18 years ago.

As I approached the finish I started giving up. The team CLR guy in front of me had won the race.

I eased, thinking I'd crossed the line. But it seemed early. I squinted to find the line through the mud on my glasses.

There it is! Up... there...

Oops.

Another guy zoomed up my inside and pipped me at the line.

3rd.

The guy who pipped me is from New York. So that left the CLR guy. We found him a few minutes later.

"Hey, where do you live?"
"Huh?"
"Where do you live?"
"Norwich."
"Aw..."
"Why?"
"Congratulations, you're the state champ!"

I grinned. He grinned. I shook his hand.

There were some other cool things for the day. I watched David H and TJ (of Expo) race in the P123 race, alongside an invited Dutch U23 team. One of their guys won out of the break, after sitting on for a good half dozen laps. His teammates celebrated in various ways in the field, with the best one being the "king of the world" meets "break dancer" salute (think of Leonardo Di Caprio in Titanic, but now do it on a bike, and wiggle your torso left and right like you're a snake... and do this all at about 35-38 mph in the middle of a field sprint).

They're kids, really, and having a blast racing their bikes. It made me grin watching them - free spirited, enjoying the moment.

There was some grumbling about how the Dutch guy sat on (from the spectators, not the racers he beat), but before anyone could frown at him, he walked over to the guy who got second and jammed a bunch of prize money in his pocket. The guy protested but it was clear what the Dutch guy wanted to say:

"You did the work. I had to follow team orders. It wasn't personal. I'm sorry it had to turn out that way. This (money) is to show that I respect you and your effort. I had a blast racing here in the US and I hope that tomorrow you and I can race each other again."

Everyone smiled, not a frown in sight.

After the Connecticut State Champs stood on the podium (David being one of them), the promoters had the Dutch guys up there for some pictures. When they were up there I asked which one did the cool salute. One guy grinned and raised his hand. The others goofed off, like the kids they are, and the coach good naturedly put them in their place.

It was fun watching them have fun. I don't know how else to put it. It reminded me that this is why I race bikes, for the opportunity to have pure, unadulterated fun, like I do when I race. It's hard sometimes, it can be cruel, but when things go well, it's just a hoot.

Grins, giggles, silliness, fun.

Bike racing is fun.

The now-unpinned number, with part of my prize.

Racing - June 8, 2010 @TuesTheRent

For once the weather smiled on us Tuesday Night World Champions, with temperatures in the low 70s, bright, dry skies, and low humidity. It doesn't get much better than this around here, even though (ahem) it may be like this all the time in, say, a place like, um, San Diego.

But I stray.

The Missus and I made the trip to Rentschler Field for some good racing, good friendships, and good times. In the morning we'd packed the car, the race wheels for sure, so I could work on my cornering (which was so poor at Somerville). Specifically I couldn't dive into a corner properly, and I wanted to work on this whole "tightening up my line" thing.

I also had my heavy, deep, aero Jet 6-9s as a back up - if I had a problem with the Stinger 6s, I could work on smooth, steady, fast speed on the flywheel like Jet 9 rear wheel, along with the aero Jet 6 front.

With the missus driving her new hot rod wagon, I got to change in the car, cutting a few minutes off my prep time at the course. I also downed a quart of Powerade (well, technically I finished the last bit when we got to the course). Drinking during the race wouldn't help me very much so I decided that I'd drink my electrolytes before it.

At the Rent we parked next to a sister of our wagon, and then another sister parked next to us. It was a little TDI meet, if you will.

I registered with the kind folks at registration, filling out all the paperwork like a racer ought to, so that if I crashed, they'd have the paperwork in order. It's important to have the signed paperwork and to see a license and to pay the entry fee.

And, no, I won't mention anyone on the blog :)

I'd collected a bunch of pins in the morning, sticking them in my pocket, so, on a lark, I used them all to pin my number.

Pins, baby, pins! 13 for good luck. And no flapping.
(Note subtle Carpe Diem Racing plug)

With the complete reassurance that my number wouldn't flap, I set off on a bit of warm up. For me that means rolling around, my heart rate barely registering a bump, until it's time to race. That night it meant about 3 or 4 loops on the far side, then a loop or two of the course as they cleared up an unfortunate collarbone victim from the B race.

Apparently the wind came from the right on the final, curving left bend, and everyone tried to get left to seek shelter. Problem is if you go too far left there's a low wood fence, and it seems that someone ended up on it.

I managed to catch up with SOC somewhere in here. I mentioned the wind, how it was a tailwind on the back stretch, a cross-headwind (from the right) on the final one. Anyone who wanted to go would go on the tailwind bit, where speed trumps drafting.

Meaning, if someone launched really hard, the field would have a hard time responding in a timely fashion because the speeds would be pretty high.

Then, when said attacker made the hard left, they'd be in the wind, with a lot of inertia carrying them forward. The field's lead riders, on the other hand, would be accelerating to meet the threat, into the wind, with everyone sitting on (and towards the left, the sheltered side).

The attacker could sit on the left side curb, on the fence rail, and would make anyone chasing really earn their gains. And, when the attacker got caught, they'd immediately have a draft as the chasers would have to pass on the windward side.

This kinda stuck in my head.

Properly warned of the wind by the emergency vehicles, we lined up. The promoters told us, just in case we missed the fire truck and ambulance, that the wind made people seek shelter on the left, and to keep our wits about us.

And with that we were off.

Now, although I saw the ambulance and fire truck, although I heard the promoters caution us, I still figured, "Well, it's pretty clear the shelter is to the left, and I'm gonna git me some."

I nearly ran off the road on that left side within a lap or two.

"Ohhh. I see what they mean."

So, now that I truly understood the situation, I made some adjustments. I really had to watch the left curb, especially the actual curb that jutted out a touch just before the line.

With a couple leg breakers there (meaning the riders), the pace promised to be pretty fast. Sure enough, Aidan, Leg Breaker Optimus, went off in search of fame and glory. Or to do a 5 minute interval, something like that.

The field chased hard, led by Central Wheel, whose riders formed a ProTour-like line of riders at the front of the field.

Okay, a ProTour-like line of riders chasing a very fast Cancellara.

Eventually Aidan returned to the fold. Breaks would go, the field would chase, and another one of Aidan's CCNS riders would launch. As I slowly sank into the depths of a lactic acid bath, I kept my eye on Aidan. I knew he'd have the gas to go, and I knew the only way to make it in his group would be to go with him.

Eventually, with everyone on the limit, Aidan went onto the attack. I watched but couldn't go. He and another rider eventually eeked out a quarter lap lead, maybe 200 meters. It seems like it should be a jumpable gap, but with the course, the wind, and the strung out field, no one could make it across.

A good try separated a bunch of riders from the field, and soon the Chase Group started pulling away.

I watched as the Chase Group dangled just 8 or 10 seconds in front of the field, knowing that I had to go right now. I remember the moment clearly, rounding the bend onto the backstretch, watching the Chase Group dive into the last turn.

It was... possible.

But my legs disagreed, and my brain quickly rationalized my legs' decision by saying that the Chase Group may be a bit closer on the next lap.

Alas, they pulled away that next lap. And the lap after. So on and so forth.

The Chase approached the Break, then two strong Chasers bridged to the Break on their own. The four man Break started gaining ground on the weakened Chase, and both of them gained ground on the Pack.

In fact, our Pack (would it surprise you to learn that I was in the Pack?) actually broke up into two groups, and for a worried lap or two I thought that I'd be stuck in the fourth group on the road. Yeah, I was in the second group of that Pack.

But the guys in front of me (I couldn't help) managed to pull things back together and the Pack reassembled, a long way behind the Chase Group, an even longer way behind the Break.

I recovered a bit and decided I'd do one of those huge efforts required to bridge a big gap. I can't motor for 5 minutes at a time - I have to go now, go hard, and get the job done. I don't know what the gap was at the time but it was a good 200+ meters, maybe close to 20 seconds.

I drove hard to the front, then off the front. I flew into the first turn, kept the pressure on, then settled into a fast, uncomfortable pace on the back stretch. I rolled onto the final curving straight, pulled hard, and, when I felt like I was about to go cross-eyed, pulled off.

No one else would pull.

With teammates in the Chase, the first guy or two didn't want to ruin things. And the guys interested in chasing weren't at the front - they were clawing their way back to the pointy end of the stick, after the rude interruption I made.

The hard chase.
Pic lifted with permission courtesy of SOC/Mrs SOC.

I looked up. Instead of a couple hundred meters, we sat an agonizing 40 or 50 meters behind the Chase; it'd been a very fast (for me) 30 mph average speed minute. I wanted someone, anyone, to make the effort to bridge. Even if they went alone, it'd have been worth it, to know that I could launch someone from one group to another.

Instead everyone sat up. Tellingly, our average speed dropped to 21 mph for the next minute. The Chase Group disappeared from our grasp for good.

I was pretty well spent and shrank back into the Pack.

(Maybe next time I'll try a slower, longer effort.)

A little while later, getting a bit dizzy from fatigue, I heard a bell ringing. I wasn't sure if maybe it was the last lap, but I wasn't about to take a chance. I launched on the back stretch, went flying into the final stretch, and turned a huge gear over to the line.

Before I got there I looked back. Started having doubts. No one was chasing. Maybe the bell was for a different group.

I cross the line, full of doubt. Looked back. I thought everyone behind was coasting. Maybe the race was over. Maybe I sprinted on the right lap.

I looked for stationary legs.

No.

They were pedaling. My eyes were failing me, everything a bit blurry, but it was painfully clear to me - the field was building up steam, hammering.

SOC came by, hollered at me to get on.

Huh? Where did he come from? I gasped that I was dead, and waited for the swarm.

The race started streaming by me. I stayed out of the way, trying not to crash anyone. But they weren't flying by, not like I'd expected. They were just creeping by.

Pity?

Then, suddenly, "like someone hit a switch in my legs"*, I could pedal again. I got on a wheel and I was back in the game. Well, the game in the Pack. Forget about the Chase Group or the Break.

Eventually the Break lapped us, and Aidan (yeah, he was there) eased a bit. He'd made his point, now he just wanted to stay upright.

With a lap to go (for real this time), I had other plans. I was looking for, but couldn't get to, SOC. We'd talked about doing a leadout, but he seemed plenty busy on the other side of the field.

Up front I saw Bryan H (IRSMedic) leading out his teammate Chad. I figured I had a decent shot at getting up there before the last turn so I gave it a good go. I went up the left side, got to the front just in time, and tried to take a smooth line through the turn, to let Bryan jump on.

I turned around and sure enough, he was there. But as the wind pummeled me, I realized I didn't have the legs like before. My legs started really twinging, and with a whole lotta guys breathing down my neck, I didn't want to cause problems. Not wanting to cramp, not wanting to get too mixed up in the sprint, I hollered at Bryan that he was clear, he could go.

He looked a bit peaked though, and our antics actually blocked his guy Chad a bit. A CCNS guy launched. I think he won the race. Chad scampered after him.

Ah, well.

We warmed down, doing the "lap after chat". SOC was there, so, too was Doug M (last I saw him was Somerville, a week before Monday). He'd been sporting some Rev-Xs after that broken spoke in NJ (and the later crash, although I don't know what happened there still).

SOC kept congratulating me on my prime; so did another guy. Maybe I really did win a prime. Hm.

After changing and getting the Missus's hot rod out onto some pavement, I wandered over to the promoters.

"Was there really a prime that one lap?"
"What?"
"Did I really win a prime?"
"Huh?"

Then they all grinned.

"Here, pick whatever you want..."

I peeked in the cooler.

Oh!

I choose... You!

"Really? Is this okay?"
"Yeah, the guy who won didn't claim his prize, so..."

"You got ID?"

We all laughed. But I held onto the bottle, and showed it off to the Missus, SOC, and Mrs SOC.

Riley examining my prime. It probably belongs to Aidan or Ron, but neither claimed it.

I felt like I had a productive night. Some big efforts. Specifically big efforts followed by more efforts, i.e. I didn't get shelled right away. I won a prime. Okay, it was minor, but I didn't drop out of the race right afterward.

And I could still make some moves on the final lap. Nothing major, again, but enough to know that I had some legs left.

I hadn't taken one sip of my bottle.

I'd worked on my cornering, and now I realize I need to return to the higher inflation pressures from before. The wide clincher rims make lower pressure beneficial, but the wider tubular rims are there just for aerodynamics. The tire remains the same, so the pressures should remain the same too. I feel a lot more comfortable on a higher pressure front tire, so I'll be racing with my tires back up into the 120-140 psi range.

Onward!

*Quote from Roy Knickman (La Vie Claire) before the 1987 Corestates race at Philly. I can't find the quote but it's in the video. Seriously. Says it with that big grin of his.

Helmet Cam - 2010 Tour of Somerville, Cat 3s

The text report is here. Now for the 34,680,000 word report (9:38 of video at 60 pictures per second is 34,680 pictures times 1000 words per picture...)

I'll round down since there are some words in the clip too :)

Here's the clip:



Enjoy!

Training - Group Ride With Jumps

Monday evening, my long day at CT Stage Race fresh in my mind, I set off to do the Granby Bike group ride. It's local, it starts late enough that I can make it after work, and, at least last year, it was hard enough that I struggled to hang on.

This year I've been riding a bit better, so this ride has become a little more manageable. I guess the biggest difference between doing this ride and riding with "racers" (some of the riders race, but generally speaking this is a more mellow ride) is the peaky stuff, the sharp stuff that hurts all new racers. Jumps, sprints, digging really deep when the suffering gets thicker, deeper. It's the stuff you learn through racing, when, at first, it seems impossible to hang with the group. Later, of course, it becomes almost easy, until you upgrade, and then the questions start all over again.

It's all about measuring progress, and so far, this year, it's been good all around.

So, for me, the Granby ride is a good Monday ride. Climbing still hurts me, yes, and I get shelled regularly, but the fast bridging efforts, they seem to work for me. I can also experiment with efforts, testing, probing, examining how my body reacts in different situations. I'm curious about how my legs work after multiple hard efforts, and the group ride gives me a nice environment where I can explode without getting dropped permanently.

Monday I had one extra motive. With no riding since my long ride last Wednesday, I wanted to get some efforts in so my legs wouldn't feel like garbage at the Rent on Tuesday.

We set off heading north, a planned 35 mile loop. It'd take just over 2 hours and remain basically flat. My legs felt crampy right away, twinging regularly, protesting (weakly) about the lack of riding. We rolled up a hill or two and although my legs didn't get magically better, they stopped getting worse.

This is called "progress".

In these rides I try to follow wheels, letting others open gaps, then, when the gap is big enough, practice bridging. I did that a few times during the ride, trying to make hard efforts to close reasonably large gaps. This mimics the efforts I make during a crit, the efforts under pressure, then the requirement to keep the effort going once the gap closes.

On one particular hill the group spread out a bit dangerously across the road (with cars passing somewhat regularly), so, in order to string things out, I raised my own tempo up to the "sustainable but not comfortable" point. One guy went blowing by me at the top but the group got nicely spread out - safer, in other words.

And my legs had responded to a stretched out effort.

Progress.

On the way back I wasn't quite up to snuff, losing the lead group after making some enormous efforts. I managed to catch back on with the help of a light, else I'd have finished the ride behind the group. Nonetheless, as we got close to the shop, my legs magically returned. Crampy, yeah, but suddenly I knew I could pedal again.

Progress, right?

The shop owner rolled by, tempting us (later admitting he wanted to instigate some counterattacks), and two of us simply could not refuse. I let one guy jump, then, using him as a mobile shelter point, jumped across to him and then to the owner.

I maintained the effort, thinking of Somerville, thinking of the times I sat up when, maybe, I could have kept going. I sat up and got 37th. If I hadn't, I'd probably have broken into the top 30.

This time, on this ride, I kept going.

Alas, as I crested the short hill at the end of the straight, my legs failed.

I sat up, waiting for the swarm.

Eventually they came, but I could still trundle along at a decent wattage, just below my threshold. It wasn't much, but it let me maintain some semblance of pace.

So maybe it wasn't a 37th kind of effort. Maybe a 34th.

Progress.

Racing - Workin' The Feed Zones at the 2010 CT Stage Race

I sat on my erstwhile stool, a white lidded cooler full of precious fluids, teeming with electrolytes and fancy sugars. My eyes focused on a gap in the foliage, one that revealed the first hint of pavement visible from my vantage point. As point man for the rest of the feed zone, I took my self-assigned task seriously.

If a car came through there with its hazards on, I'd need to jump up, pull out said bottles of fluids, and get ready to feed my teammates.

I spent 4 hours peering down the road today.

And that was at the first feed zone.

The second one wasn't quite so exciting. First off, we were all parked a bit chaotically, so it resembled more of a disaster-recovery crew, not a military operation. Secondly, I (and my teammates) were at the end of the feed zone, so I wasn't point man anymore.

When I say point man, it's kind of a job assigned by where you place yourself in the feed zone. By default, if you line up at the beginning of the feed zone, you end up the canary in the coal mine. If you get up and grab bottles, so does everyone else. Everyone looks to you. So you're point man.

At the first feed zone I sat at the beginning of the feed area, so the Expo Boys would be able to pick me out right away. But then I became the look out for everyone else, kind of.

Which wasn't that bad, come to think of it.

I think I'd be pretty good at a certain kind of look out duty, like maybe in the military or maybe security. Not the kind where someone tells me, "If you see anything out there, shoot it!" I think I'd be better at, "Keep an eye on that area there, and let me know if anyone shows up."

"Yessir!"

Okay, so not a look out like a guard look out. Maybe more like a lobby receptionist.

'Movement sited in highlighted corridor. Target acquired. Target approaching. Initiating reaction sequence...'

"Hi, how can I help you today?"
"Um, yeah, I'm looking for the radiology department?"
"Right, that would be on the third floor. Elevators are there, and you should take a left when you get out of the elevators."
"Thanks."
"No problem. Have a nice day."

'Target assimilated.'

30 seconds later...

'Movement sited in highlighted corridor....'

I sat there, peering out from under the brim of my Cutter-soaked cap, looking for the elusive and rare vehicle, the ones call the "Pace Vehicles". These are sited only at the head of bike racing pelotons, and with only four around today, they were a rare vehicle indeed.

This was Feed Zone One, situated 40 miles into the 91 mile race route. I got here in my white van, not the smaller red or blue cars, because someone had pointed out that maybe, just maybe, I'd be driving exhausted riders and their bikes back to the start/finish area.

The van also held more stuff. I brought with me a variety of things, including FIVE coolers (using three of them), two generators, a microwave oven, chairs, two umbrellas, spare helmet, floor pump, a bunch of bottles, two calzones, and a bunch of baked goods I bought from the Senior Center ladies at the registration building.

Okay, I had more. I had my gear bag, loaded with two rain jackets and a vest, extra tubes, and tools. I had a shopping bag with fresh towels, rubbing alcohol, for those riders needing to clean up a bit.

I had my mosquito spray, DEET, and Yard Net area mosquito spray.

And finally I had the stuff I forgot, sitting at home - first aid kit, clean and dry street clothes, more towels, an extra bench for the van (I only had one of four benches in it), spare wheels, and whatever weird stuff still sat in my van.

So, if you were driving a 1984-1989 Ford Escort, I had a wheel for you. Or if your Saab 900 (pre-1989) needed ball joints, well, I had like six of them. Need a jump? Had jumper cables. A tube for your clincher? Got 700c tubes. A tarp? How about three? Bungee cords?

You get the idea.

Earlier in the day I'd met up with my teammates. Joe T, Taylor, and myself would feed our rider in the 3s (Cliff), the M40s (Dave), and the 4s (Dennis, Mike, and Steve). I got two bottles from each, put them into the two coolers (FZOne - Feed Zone One, FZTwo), and took Dave's cooler as a whole (he supplied a bunch of bottles for himself).

We also took some bottles for a lone guy from a yellow/black team. We'd feed him as a favor.

Both coolers also held all the bottles I could find and wash in the dishwasher the night before. I told the Missus something like this:

"I'm gonna get all the bottles I can find, wash them in the dishwasher, and hand them out to whoever wants them."
"Will they return them?"
"No, usually not."
"Oh, good!"

The pile of extra bottles strewn around the house suddenly got really, really small.

Before we left I also bought some baked goods from the Senior Center ladies. I asked if they'd be around after the race - they told me they were packing up to shut down their sale. I mentioned that the racers would be hungry after a 91 mile ride, and they would probably have some business if they stayed open. They laughed, asked for my name in case no one showed up, and started bagging more cookies.

Properly armed, Joe and I set off to FZOne. Taylor hopped a ride with me since he didn't have a car.

We successfully fed the 3s.

Then, because we'd run out of time, Joe T took Cliff's second feed in a mini-cooler and took off to FZTwo.

Of course, as he drove away, I realized that he needed to take Dave's feed also, because we'd probably miss him. So I asked a kind lady in a nice car to drive Taylor to FZTwo, along with Dave's cooler, after we all fed the M40s. She kindly agreed.

When the M40s came by, they were led by one Ed A in a solo break. He looked a bit tired but declined my feed. He'd be out front for 50 miles alone, and still manage to take some prizes home. Incredible.

We got Dave okay, and the yellow/black team guy. He crashed later in the feed zone but we had no idea - we were busy getting Taylor packed up and into the kind lady's Bimmer. She'd handed up a bottle to her husband in the M40s, and she and Taylor headed right over to FZTwo.

That left me alone to feed three guys in the 4s race at FZOne.

Occasionally lone riders would roll by, dropped by their parent pack. I'd offer them a bottle, but inevitably they'd turn me down.

Two riders approached at a more leisurely pace, and from their voices I could tell they were two women. I figured they were riding the course in lieu of their canceled races. But after they rode by, they stopped - they were feeding their respective boyfriend and fiance in the 4s.

The skies threatened all day with rain and before the 4s arrived the clouds opened up with a vengeance. I ran to the van, grabbed my super-sized golf umbrella, and frantically pushed the "open" button. The rain hit so suddenly that the four extra jabs at the button meant I was soaked - had I hit it right the first time, I'd just have been damp.

A bit miserable, I returned to my post.

The rain didn't seem like it'd go anywhere soon, so when it eased a bit, I offered the two women a ride to the next feed. They accepted.

The initial two man break of the P12 race, containing Bethel Spring Series overall winner Robert Sweeting, rode by, looking solid for having covered something like 80 miles.

About 15 minutes later, a guy in light blue came by. He didn't look too happy and he declined my offer of a bottle.

Another minute and another light blue guy rode by, covered in mud. He also looked unhappy, and he also turned down my feed.

I guess pros don't take feeds from strangers, else they might pick up a spiked drink. That was my thought at the time. I had no idea.

The the 4s showed up. I had our best GC rider's bottle (Dennis's) in one hand, Steve and Mike's in the other. Of course Steve showed up first, I dropped the bottle, I never saw Mike, and I dropped Dennis's bottle.

I knew this was critical, and I'd promised them I'd feed them, so I scooped up Dennis's and Steve's bottles and ran after the pack, handing them off to Dennis.

Note: Never, ever run in a feed zone. Except when it's a matter of extreme honor. It's totally against the rules to run in a feed zone.

I got a really loud warning from an official for my rule-shattering hand off, but Dennis, and later, Steve, had their bottles.

The two women also successfully fed their friends so we scrambled into the van and set off to FZTwo.

After an forever-drive (in CT Stage Race, each bit of road seems to be 5 miles long with no houses or cross streets), we finally made it to FZTwo. There we had some inkling of what happened to the P12s.

The overall race leader was hanging out there, banged up, bleeding a bit, bandaged a lot. He looked cold in his soaked jersey and shorts, and someone was commenting he was looking for some food. I found him and gave him cookies (Senior Center sourced), a blueberry cake piece (same source), and I think something else.

He scarfed them all down.

In between bites I offered him the option of sitting in the van to keep warm. He declined but asked if I could give his bike a ride back to the start/finish. I agreed and loaded up his Extremely Light race bike. It weighed about what my bike does if my bike had no wheels on it. Incredible.

When the 3s went by I fed whoever I could - I had a lot of extra bottles now. And when the M40s rolled by, with Dave nowhere in sight, we fed a bunch of them bottles too.

Dave rolled in a little while later, shattered. He'd dropped out of the break, basically racing as hard as possible until his body shut down. We collected him and his bike, although he rode down the road to pick up a cone that some kids in a car ran over (on purpose).

We fed the 4s, successfully, with Joe, Taylor, Dave, and myself handing out bottles.

Then we got ready to roll back to the start/finish. One woman (and her bike), Dave (and his), and the Leader's Bike, Taylor, and I climbed in and set off.

At the finish we waited and waited for the 4s. Dennis, Mike, and Steve finished well, in the lead pack. I'd bought two of the last three bags of cookies for Dennis (nothing else left except bagels), a soda, and went looking for everyone. Dennis had been dying for some of the baked goods (he told me about them Saturday), and when I gave him the two bags, his face lit up.

Overall, for us, a great day. I had a lot of fun, our friends in the 3s, 4s, and M40s made it okay through the race, and the support crew had a good time too.

Dennis D and me after the finish of the road race. I'm holding a very handy-for-the-day umbrella. it doesn't look like he rode 91 miles, does it?

Training - Long, Hot Day

Wednesday I needed to go to Bethel to pick up the van. I'd meant to do this each week after returning from Vegas, but each week something popped up - thunderstorms, thunderstorms, or thunderstorms. Okay, last week I had just crashed the day prior, so that was my excuse then.

Since I had to visit Navone Studios last weekend, I drove down last Wednesday.

Meaning I got there but I drove the same car back, not the van. Ultimately my goal was to get the van back home without leaving yet another vehicle at Navone's.

So June 2nd, last Wednesday, I decided I'd finally follow through with my threats to ride there (and, potentially, to race the race before I drove home). I fueled up for this immense ride with... two pieces of toast, peanut butter and fluff applied sparingly, at about 7 AM. For whatever reason I wasn't feeling hungry, so I things alone.

I headed out at noon, a little worry tickle at the back of my head - I hadn't eaten anything else, just some coffee, and I was heading out for a long ride.

I chose a simple route - Head south to 202/44, take a right, take a left on Route 7, and then when I hit 53, follow to Bethel. Two turns - what could go wrong?

Well, it's not that things go wrong. It's that Route 202 is a long, hilly road. About 45 minutes into the ride I realized I had been on a climb for a few minutes, riding at about FTP (250 watts), and the hill showed no sign of ending.

Not just that, I had very little shade, I'd gone through one of my bottles, and I wasn't even 15 miles into my 70-ish mile ride.

After a couple more of these never ending hills, I started thinking of what the Tour riders go through. I mean, I don't know what they go through, I can't fathom it, but I could relate to maybe 1% of their suffering. Doing 4 or 5 hours a day, with a couple shorter and longer days to break things up, the race relentless in its march to the finish.

I read recently an interview with the HTC-Columbia team doctor. What he said was incredible - by the third week the riders are vomiting and have diarrhea, and at that point they define "nutrition" as whatever food stays down.

Insane.

I started getting really cooked in the heat, my electrolyte drink rapidly disappearing. I thought of my teammates who have registered for various 60 to 90+ mile road races, and what they'll have to do to get through the day.

One thing struck me quickly - they couldn't skip the early feeds, otherwise they'd be in trouble later.

And here I was with two empty bottles, about 50 miles to go.

I saw one of those "gas marts" and pulled in.

(I prefer to pull into those on rides because I don't lock my bike, and with a gas mart, there aren't other folks around - like coffee shop people or supermarket people - and usually gas stations have camera security.)

I bought two bottles of Powerade (one sugar, one not - this would start adding calories to my intake since I started with two bottles of Powerade Zero).

Outside a woman walked up to me. I thought she was walking to the entrance but she stopped next to me. When I looked up, she said hi. And then asked me about nutrition on bikes. What a coincidence, that I'd just been thinking of nutrition and here someone pops up, out the blue, with questions on the same topic.

Apparently she's been training for RAGBRAI and can't go half an hour on the bike without feeling hungry. We talked about calories in/out, protein versus carbs, the hills in Kent (where I trained with my teammate John before we went to Belgium), and some other stuff that I've since forgotten. We both had places to go so we headed out our own ways.

The second leg started getting really draggy - I didn't want to get out of the saddle much, my kit felt baggy on my (shorts and jersey), my neck felt tweaked (slept wrong a couple nights ago, and it flared up), and I started wondering why I was riding this far. I get these thoughts in the middle of most of my long rides, questioning my sanity, but they resolve themselves by the end.

Otherwise it wouldn't be worth it.

Right?

Right.

Once I made the left on Route 7 (preceeded by a short detour on the new Route 7 highway - I turned around after a few hundred yards), I made a stop at the third gas mart on a long stretch of road. I'd contemplated trying to get to Bethel without stopping once more, but when I filled my bottles, I realized I was pretty much dry.

I guess my thinking deteriorates when I'm tired.

I set off on the final leg of the trip, my legs really fatigued, getting the familiar and unwanted twinges foretelling a cramp. I started pedaling in my adaptive manner - bigger gears, drop my heel more, don't make any big efforts...

Okay, except when a school bus pulled away from a light. I sprinted like a maniac, shifting up through the gears, until I was cruising along at a nice, muscle twinging 40-odd mph.

Then, my energy reserve depleted, I swung off, exhausted.

I spent the next 10 minutes pedaling in a stupor, wondering why I sprinted after the bus.

Oh, right. My thinking deteriorates with fatigue.

My legs must have recovered, and, as Indurain put it, started going through their renaissance, because as we got closer to Bethel, I started pedaling a bit harder.

The Missus called when I was doing a trackstand at a light, and, after a brief chat (she let me go so I could focus on riding), I sprung away from the light, energized. Talking to the Missus must have helped.

Note to self: talk to the Missus when in trouble. If you see me jabbering away on the cell phone with 5 laps to go in a crit...

In this last bit of road, on 53, I kept doing trackstands so that I could get away cleanly from each light, with as little disruption to traffic as possible. I'd sprint up to speed, pedal until the cars got a bit thinned out, then settled into a more reasonable time trial effort as the cars went past me.

One minivan slowed down a bit.

"Nice trackstand!"
"Thanks!"

I was flying on the bike.

He turned off.

I sat up. Poof. That was it. Finito.

I crawled to Bethel, done. Rolled through the doors at Navone's. Got off the bike, sat down. I was utterly wasted - all I could think about was that I had to drive the van home.

Then, with a Hammer bar (Navone sells them), a Gatorade and a Coke (those too), I started feeling a little more human, enough so that I realized, man, I stinky. With a "y".

The A race went off first, maybe 45 minutes after I got there, so I had an excuse not to race. I spent some time talking with one of the Bethel Spring Series officials. He'd been riding again, having been less serious about the bike for a while. We caught up on news - at Bethel all we talk about is... Bethel.

But at some point Frank (of Navone's) encouraged me to race the Bs, and I finally relented. The Hammer bar, the drinks, and some relaxed conversation, and I started feeling a little more lively. I could do a few laps with them, blow up on the hill, drop out, and be done. I wouldn't contest the sprint, nor would I chase down too many things.

I signed up, pinned on a number, and I was in business.

Coincidentally, my teammate from the Belgium trip (John) happened to show up. I mentioned the chat I had about nutrition and said that I'd mentioned training up in the hills of Kent with "my teammate John". And, look at that, here you are.

We both laughed. That was a totally different time for sure.

In the race my legs betrayed me early on. I found myself in difficulty right away, my legs twinging furiously coming up the hill. I had to slow dramatically a few times, else I'd have cramped (and probably crashed), but to the other racers' credit, no one even said boo to me.

But that's not what caught my attention. What did was that the racers are all 4s and 5s. I realized that I hadn't ridden with "less experienced" riders in a long, long time. Most of the riders were smooth, some were not. I noticed a bunch of things that would probably get much more notice in a Cat 3 race.

One racer was smooth but would make bigger lateral moves than I felt comfortable watching. He'd smoothly move over 5 or 6 feet without as much as a glance (or if he glanced, he ignored any rider in his way). He cut off a number of people, but, to the others' credit, they adjusted nicely.

Another looked really uncomfortable on his bike. I couldn't figure out what was wrong - his elbows seemed bent but his bike made some jerky motions. I think that maybe he was holding onto his bars for dear life, steering with his hands, not his hips.

Speaking of bent elbows, one rider rode with locked elbows. Not very good if your wheel hits a bump, or, more seriously, if your elbow hits a rider.

Another rider rode with a wobbly death grip on the bars. He seemed less experienced and I could see the tension in his arms. To his credit he rode very bravely, even though he seemed uncomfortable sometimes. Pushing limits, without causing crashes, can be a good thing.

Although I wore my helmet cam, I don't think a lot of people realized that I'd used it up (memory + battery) on the long ride down to Bethel. So I have no evidence of any of the above. But, if someone in the race is curious or wants feedback, feel free to ask me. I don't like giving advice when someone hasn't asked me first, unless the rider put me in danger.

As far as doing the B race and recording it, I don't think I'll have an excuse to do it again, but I found it very fascinating.

Now, on the good side, the race had a lot of sprints (it was a points race) and one very team oriented team - Pawling Cycles. They rode really well together, sometimes getting really good results, other times swamped by riders taking advantage of Pawlings' work. Nonetheless they were like Fasso Bortolo for Petacchi at his peak - always chasing down, always leading out.

I chose to sit back and watch all the action, trying not to disrupt the race too much. When Pawling was chasing, I let them chase. I think I pulled back a small group, trying to fan the flames a bit, but most of the time I sat at the back and observed.

I realized that my comfort zone had gotten dramatically bigger, i.e. I was less comfortable in the field. I sat 10 feet off a wheel sometimes, because I felt the need to give some riders that much room to feel comfortable that they wouldn't take me out. I reminded myself not to squeeze through any holes - I didn't want to cause any crashes.

I decided that if my legs felt okay I'd try and demonstrate a leadout to the field. I didn't discuss with with anyone, nor did anyone ask me to do a leadout. I figured that I could do a leadout, pull off, and let the actual racers fight it out.

On the last couple laps I made some efforts to move up, my almost-cramping legs screaming in protest. I managed to get into decent position at the bell, but I had push a bit to get through. I thought about shooting a gap going into Turn 2 of the last lap, but remembered my own thought of not shooting gaps.

I backed off.

But when the gap opened up, I rolled through. Predictably a Pawling guy sat at the front. I yelled to give him warning I was coming through - "Go, Go, Go!" - and went pedaling past. I stayed seated, not trusting my legs to work if I stood, and started accelerating hard.

I managed to hit about 35 mph, held it there for a bit, and started wobbling like crazy as my legs started sounding alarms everywhere. If there were lights on my legs, they'd have been flashing like a fire truck.

I used this opportunity to push through the crampiness, to push through the twinging. I wanted to keep pedaling hard, keep going, to test myself, to see what would happen if I pushed.

Just as the trees opened up at the Mirror Building my legs blew. I knew that another couple seconds of pedaling and I wouldn't be able to keep my legs from completely seizing. I checked my seven o'clock, saw it was clear, and wiggled my right elbow to pull off.

I lifted my head to watch the sprint.

David, the Spring Series helper guy, was stranded out in the wind. Although I hadn't planned anything, he knew a wheel when he saw one, and he'd been the first to respond. My bad legs had dumped him in the wind about 75 meters early.

Oops.

On his wheel was a Navone guy, one that won a couple sprints earlier. He used David perfectly, launching hard to win the sprint.

Behind them was... a gap.

I hadn't meant it to happen, but I think the early move (relatively speaking) froze everyone into indecision. Hopefully my move illustrated just what one can do to influence a race. Granted, I was sitting in the whole race, but that could be a valid tactic for a helper guy. Or, if a teammate won a few sprints earlier, a fresh teammate could chase after other points.

Whatever, it was all good. I had a slice of Navone pizza, my queasy stomach back. Another Coke, plenty of conversation, and I was on the way home.

I unfortunately had a lot of time to rest on the way back, with two construction delays on I-84. I rolled in to the house, in darkness, about 11.5 hours after I left on the bike.

It'd been a long day.

It'd been a hot day.

But, yeah, it was a good day too.

Equipment - Cleats: Check Them

One of the casualties of my little tumble a week ago was my Look cleats. Well, both of them, so maybe I need to write "were", not "was". Whatever, my cleats ended up a bit damaged, with bits and pieces of said items disappearing at the crash scene.

When I went to replace them I realized just how damaged they'd been.

Initial assessment - outer bit of cleat chipped off, scrapes on shoe buckle.

I realized the left shoe wasn't right at the end of the "crash ride" when my 4.5 degree float pedal all of a sudden had a Speedplay-like 37 degrees of float. Okay, I didn't measure it, but it was the same disconcerting feel I had when I first tried Speedplays. I finally unclipped (pushing the shoe the other way), thought about it, and realized that, oh, the pedal or cleat must be damaged. Lo and behold, it was.

Nice illustration of what was (left) and what should be (right). Note big chunk missing from cleat on the left.

The new cleats were much taller, much thicker, and much more plastic looking. The old cleats looked like some art student shaped some bubble gum into a cleat-shaped lump.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed something else - both cleats were cracked, heavily, at the front.

Cracks at front of cleat, both sides.

The black marks are from the Sharpie I used to mark cleat position. But look at how tan my hand is. I mean, look at the cracks at the front of the cleat. If they failed catastrophically, it'd be ugly.

So, moral of the story?

Check your cleats. Now. And if they seem sketchy, get some new ones. It's not worth risking flipping over your bars or high siding off the bike sprinting out of the turn.

Put your extra cleats (you have them, don't you?) in your gear bag. I have to go out and buy a set for my bag because those went onto my shoes.

And, yes, I replaced them before Somerville. I raced there on fresh, un-cracked cleats.