After so many years of making fun of lycra-clad shaven roadies...I've become one: Wapello-Mediapolis. Memorial Day weekend, 2008.
With all of 100 miles of training time on a geared bike, I was looking forward to a proper road race. I suspect I'm more of an all-rounder and climber, though I barely leave the confines of Cook county, hardly a training ground for mountain champs. In other words, I can't say that I'm crazy about my chances in a race that involves doing laps and beating everyone in a sprint. To be honest, I've never even contested a proper sprint, unless you count cars.
With that said, I didn't expect it to be so challenging. 24 miles? Cat 5? No problem!
The race turns out to be a three-legged u-turn. First we head into the wind, relaxed at 18-20* mph. Even this turns out to be enough to drop four of the starting 15. I count heads and think "If I beat just one of these guys, I'll medal." I tell myself that's how losers think. Winners think about winning.
(*Note: I accidentally reset my speedometer at the start line, so I'm not sure the wheel diameter was calibrated correctly. The speed figures are approximate.)
We turn into a tail-y crosswind, and it picks up to 24ish. I'm at the back of a long line, focusing on staying tight amidst the accordion efforts. Still waiting for something to happen. Somebody leads us through a patch of gravel and some panic braking almost leads to trouble. Adrenaline going, I find myself in sudden trauma trying to hang on at 28 mph...29...30...I find myself looking at a gap ten feet out, for the first a couple real points of panic: MY RACE ENDS HERE IF I DON'T GET THAT WHEEL BACK. I get it back. I look out from behind my pacer to see we're all separated: four ahead, seven of us a hundred yards back. Shit. This is why you don't hang out back here.
Everyone fades but three of us. We're all looking at each other, but I know I was just coming back from redlining, and not about to charge after them. I suspect we all felt the same. Suddenly, a fourth joins us, "Well, are we gonna get 'em, or what?" He sounds more than a little annoyed with our lack of effort. Green hits it, red hits it, white hits it for an anemic pull, and it's my turn.
The fear of getting dropped by the wayside seems to keep me from giving it 100%. What if they use me up and I'm off the back as they bridge? But then something else kicks in: who fucking cares anyway? What, am I going to sit in like a wuss to protect seventh? I may not be as strong as green or red, but I'm not gonna punk out like white jersey. I throw it all out there, and then some, and damn near bridge us all the way back. I'm about two seconds from dropping when green takes over and I slip in to hug his wheel tight. I recover, heaving. We're back in. Eight of us in the lead pack now.
We make the turn into the final third, and hit the first "real" climb. Actually five of the last seven miles are a steady climb, but the tailwind negates much of it. I'd told myself I would cover any attacks here, maybe launch a few soft ones to see what happens, and maybe a full attack. In typical fashion, I think too little and attack too hard.
I peel off left and look back, trying to see who's coming up, trying to not block anyone in...I lose focus for a minute, touch the yellow line, and the course marshal beeps. He comes up, gives me a warning, and by the time I slip back in, the line is strung out far (good!) and I get in at fourth. Only one small problem: there's a gap ahead of third. Strong white (who I believe was pulling up front since the gun) and green are off. Third is not closing it. Sixth and seventh are not coming up to help, and punk white is off the back. I realize I have to get it back. I go, and no one tails me. I'm out in no man's land...closer, closer, closer...then further, further, further...
Four of us group up and try to get them. We take pulls at 27ish, still climbing a bit, but we're clunky or maybe just not fast enough. I'm dying. I drop back a slot in the rotation after every pull for a couple extra seconds of rest. I get a couple looks like "you're up" but wave them through. I'm not pulling my weight, and we're losing the two leaders anyway.
I take 30 seconds in back to breathe, and hit it hard. Was it an attack? A last ditch attempt to get the group going? Whatever it was, we're about at the next uptick in the hill, and I go, holding 29+. I'm long and strong up the hill, and in the process, sixth is off the back. Three of us now, racing for third. I'm feeling good, so I stay there. I suspect they are leaving me out to save it for the sprint for bronze but I don't care.
True enough, I see a "1000 meters" sign. Hooray! No, shit! I'm in the front! Bad!
Three things I know about sprinting:
1. I have no idea where and when to start.
2. I have almost no experience at it whatsoever.
3. I know I shouldn't be in front.
Long story short, I pull over and damn near stop. I would have track-stood to get into the final spot, but stragglers were creeping up the hill, so I settled for drafting red while he wound up. I came around him just right, but I realized orange was doing the same to me...I'm not surprised to be in at fourth. All I can think about is how I should have dropped back into a tight spot after my attack, instead of being so damn careful not to box anyone in. Live and learn.
Turns out Strong White Jersey won it, leading wire to wire, and that he's been a, um, "successful" Cat 5 for a number of years now. WTF?
