Thanks to the raging fire that is currently, uh, raging over in the mountains outside Ketchum (and inside Ketchum), my season is officially over. Something about this Ketchum Crit seemed a little too good to be true: a $10,000 purse for an hour long race with a field limit of 80 racers: 40 cat 3's and 40 1/2's. I don't even remember the last time I raced a crit that was only an hour long, or with less than 100 guys in it. Unfortunately, this Castle Rock Complex fire is a natural disaster of monumental proportions; mother nature has made her point loud and clear: there shall be no easy money criterium in Idaho. Those Sportsbaseonline.com guys better give me back my entry fee, I'll tell you what! I'm not exactly devastated – crits haven't exactly been my best friend this year, but it would have been fun to race in front of my friends and family one last time this year.
Even though this has been a good season, there is something destabilizing about being done early, not unlike a carpet being whisked out from underneath one's feet, or suddenly stepping ashore after months at sea. What on earth am I to do now? I still have one more adventure before I can settle down for good (read: more than two weeks); I have to go to Chicacgo (again), and care for my 14 year old cousins while their parents are out of town. The important thing is however, the racing is over. It's shocking, but I don't need to ride every day if I don't want to. Best of all, I can do things I wouldn't normally for fear of hurting myself: fly my power kite, go surfing, try break dancing, etc.
What is a bicycle racer who doesn't race? Just a bicycle?
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
Memories from the Hotter'n'Hell 100: 98 degrees, humidity; swolen knees, humility.
It wasn’t until I arrived at the Razorback Hydration Station at mile 98 that I became certain that I was going to finish the 2007 HH100. I had plenty of fluids to get me to the finish line, but when I turned past the rusting tin automobile garage, past the woman waving a beer bottle shouting “free beer”, and past a second bystander who also yelled “free beer”, I just had to pull a U-turn. “You serious?” I asked, not certain if this oasis was real or a fantastical mirage, a projection of my deepest desires. “Heck yeah—it’s cold too,” said the grey haired, mutton-chopped, pot-bellied man who’d just flagged me down, “you’re the first one to stop today!” This fact gave me great pleasure; I was the fittest person to need a beer, out of the nearly 12,000 participants in this year’s Hotter’n’Hell 100 mile bicycle ride. I reached the old garage, and gladly accepted red plastic cup from a squirrelly-looking old guy with a full beard, and took a large sip of pure foam. Yum. A quick scan told me that, visually, I was a stark contrast to the rest of the people inside the garage. I was all sweaty and lycra-clad, while almost everyone else was wearing cowboy boots. The one thing we all had in common was a red plastic cup filled with foam. Inside the garage, several other older, bearded men sat in front of large industrial fans that kept the interior of the garage cool. I could see a large grill clearly cooking something unhealthy and delicious. Along the walls were stacked piles and piles of old rusty tools, and high above our heads, a beautifully restored 1940’s Desoto, a turquoise one, sat on a lift. Enjoying myself, but at the same time fearing that one beer might turn into seven, and, perhaps, realizing that I was still competing in a USCF sanctioned bicycle race, I decided it was time to go. I posed for a picture with my beer cup, signed the official Razorback Hydration Station guest log, finished my drink, and got back on my bike.
earlier...
The race was over. There were fifteen people up the road–how they got up there is anyone's guess–and the "field" of twenty or so that Nick and I were riding in had given up completely. Nobody wanted to pull-through, but everyone was willing to chase: negative racing at it's worst. I'd already gone through seven bottles of water (the four that I started with, and three I picked up in feed zones), but I was still thirsty, and there was still 25 miles left in the race. My knee was starting to stiffen up, now that the adrenaline had worn off, but at least I'd stopped cramping. This heat! How in the world were any of these guys still going hard? I was so blown I could hardly see straight. Our stupid group kept doing stupid things: opening up gaps for no reasons, attacking the paceline, refusing to pull through yet insisting upon riding near the front–and the breakaway's gap kept increasing. We passed by one of the many aid stations we'd seen along the way. The large circus style tent beckoned to me, and then formed eyes and a mouth. "I've got cold drinks and cookies," it said, "you look tired, why don't you come grab a seat in the shade, cool off in front of one of the giant fans". Surprised, I rubbed my eyes, but the face on the side of the tent was still there.
"I can't stop, I'm in the middle of a race! Can you save me a cookie for later?" I asked the tent.
"Nope–stop now, or no cookies for you," the circus tent teased.
Ten minutes later, I clipped back into my pedals. My belly was full of Gatorade and cookies (and perhaps my pride); my body temperature was about 5 degrees cooler; my face had been wiped clean with wet towel; and I was quite pronouncedly out of the race, but thank heavens, that face on the side of the tent had stopped talking to me.
earlier...
“Awh fuck no, this ain’t happening,” I thought to myself, as the racer directly in front of me went skidding across the road on his side—but oh yes, it was happening alright. I slowed down quite a bit, but couldn’t avoid hitting the unfortunate fellow on the ground, and thus, hitting the ground myself. I wasn’t hurt bad, but it took me a few seconds to slam my displaced shifter back into position, and get my chain back on. For the next half-hour, I chased my brains out with the help of one other unlucky racer. My chase companion was bleeding from his hand, and turned his bar-tape on the right side a really hardcore, yet pretty shade of pink. At long last the field slowed down; either a break got established, the field got tired, or both, and we were able to make contact with the peloton. On the list of things that suck a lot--crashing and then having to chase for miles is solidly inside the top ten.
earlier......
Nick and I woke up as late as we could: 5:30 AM for a 6:30 start. We quickly shoveled down some food and put on our spandex. We grabbed our bikes and headed out the door, out of the air conditioning and into a hot, humid, pitch black Witchita Falls morning. The five mile ride from the hotel to the race was enough to make us start sweating profusely, and the sun wasn't even up yet. We arrived at the very back of the staging area--a massive 4 lane boulevard completely blocked off to vehicular traffic, and jam packed with cyclists for at least ten blocks. After borrowing a pump to top off our tires, we began the tedious (and dangerous) process of weaving our way through over 12,000 cyclists to the staging area for the men's pro/1/2 staging area.
earlier...
The race was over. There were fifteen people up the road–how they got up there is anyone's guess–and the "field" of twenty or so that Nick and I were riding in had given up completely. Nobody wanted to pull-through, but everyone was willing to chase: negative racing at it's worst. I'd already gone through seven bottles of water (the four that I started with, and three I picked up in feed zones), but I was still thirsty, and there was still 25 miles left in the race. My knee was starting to stiffen up, now that the adrenaline had worn off, but at least I'd stopped cramping. This heat! How in the world were any of these guys still going hard? I was so blown I could hardly see straight. Our stupid group kept doing stupid things: opening up gaps for no reasons, attacking the paceline, refusing to pull through yet insisting upon riding near the front–and the breakaway's gap kept increasing. We passed by one of the many aid stations we'd seen along the way. The large circus style tent beckoned to me, and then formed eyes and a mouth. "I've got cold drinks and cookies," it said, "you look tired, why don't you come grab a seat in the shade, cool off in front of one of the giant fans". Surprised, I rubbed my eyes, but the face on the side of the tent was still there.
"I can't stop, I'm in the middle of a race! Can you save me a cookie for later?" I asked the tent.
"Nope–stop now, or no cookies for you," the circus tent teased.
Ten minutes later, I clipped back into my pedals. My belly was full of Gatorade and cookies (and perhaps my pride); my body temperature was about 5 degrees cooler; my face had been wiped clean with wet towel; and I was quite pronouncedly out of the race, but thank heavens, that face on the side of the tent had stopped talking to me.
earlier...
“Awh fuck no, this ain’t happening,” I thought to myself, as the racer directly in front of me went skidding across the road on his side—but oh yes, it was happening alright. I slowed down quite a bit, but couldn’t avoid hitting the unfortunate fellow on the ground, and thus, hitting the ground myself. I wasn’t hurt bad, but it took me a few seconds to slam my displaced shifter back into position, and get my chain back on. For the next half-hour, I chased my brains out with the help of one other unlucky racer. My chase companion was bleeding from his hand, and turned his bar-tape on the right side a really hardcore, yet pretty shade of pink. At long last the field slowed down; either a break got established, the field got tired, or both, and we were able to make contact with the peloton. On the list of things that suck a lot--crashing and then having to chase for miles is solidly inside the top ten.
earlier......
Nick and I woke up as late as we could: 5:30 AM for a 6:30 start. We quickly shoveled down some food and put on our spandex. We grabbed our bikes and headed out the door, out of the air conditioning and into a hot, humid, pitch black Witchita Falls morning. The five mile ride from the hotel to the race was enough to make us start sweating profusely, and the sun wasn't even up yet. We arrived at the very back of the staging area--a massive 4 lane boulevard completely blocked off to vehicular traffic, and jam packed with cyclists for at least ten blocks. After borrowing a pump to top off our tires, we began the tedious (and dangerous) process of weaving our way through over 12,000 cyclists to the staging area for the men's pro/1/2 staging area.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
In the airport bar.....
“Ahh, you’re an athlete, not just a showoff,” Trish, the probably-thirty-eight-year-old woman who was hitting on me said. Of course, this was after she’d put it all together that I’m not a BMX racer, nor do I do tricks off ramps, but instead on of those tutti-fruity, spandex wearing, Tour de France style bicyclists. Trish was nervous as hell for her flight, and was rapidly downing her second bloody Mary, despite loudly proclaiming that she could only have one before sitting down. Trish didn’t fly much, but I got the feeling she drank plenty. She rummaged through her purse for quite some time before producing her business card. She let me know she was in the hotel industry in Salt Lake City, and if I ever needed to stay at her hotel, for a race or any reason at all, I should give her a call. “This is strictly business,” she said, “I’m not just trying to pick you up.” The bartender and I exchanged meaningful glances that directly contradicted this statement.
Here I am in the Salt Lake City airport, on my second 7 hour layover of the day. My season just ended, I’m three beers deep, and the bartender—Mike was his name—is encouraging me to go for a fourth. Should I? That was a rhetorical question.
Here I am in the Salt Lake City airport, on my second 7 hour layover of the day. My season just ended, I’m three beers deep, and the bartender—Mike was his name—is encouraging me to go for a fourth. Should I? That was a rhetorical question.
Friday, August 24, 2007
HULK MAD, PEDALS SMASH, GRAHHHHHH!!!!!!
HULK SEE POWER TEST AT PRODUCT EXPO. SILLY MAN ASK HULK IF HE LIKE TO TRY POWER TEST. HULK RELUCTANTLY ACCEPT CHALLENGE--HULK HATE POWER TEST---POWER TEST MAKE HULK MAD!!!! TINY BIKE THAT HAVE TOO SHORT SEAT POST MAKE HULK MAD!!!!! TOE-STRAPS MAKE HULK MAD!!!!!!
HULK SMASH PEDALS--PEDALS SMASH--HULK SEE ONLY GREEN FOR TWO MINUTES WHILE SMASHING PEDALS....
MAN AT BOOTH MAKE SILLY FACE. "Dude.......wow" ALL HIM SAY. HULK WINNER OF SILLY POWER CONTEST--TAKE HOME SHINY NEW HEART RATE MONITOR.
hulk like heart rate monitor. maybe hulk like power test after all.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
more of my full week....
On the morning of the Tour de Lovell, I awoke five minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off, serene, like a Labrador retriever (huh?). The morning flowed gracefully from breakfast, to packing my bags, to driving to the race with my uncle. I went to the registration table, and picked up my packet—I was bib number one. While pinning my numbers, I helped a handful of people with their own pinning jobs. The instructions said that racers needed to wear numbers on their bikes, helmets and hips, which led to all kinds of comical number placements. Most people pinned their un-crinkled number directly to their spandex shorts, right over their hips, such that every pedal stroke would make the number bow out like a spinnaker. While doing my best to avoid coming off like a condescending know-it-all (and perhaps stifling a scoff), I showed my uncle and another nearby racer how to scrunch up the numbers, so they break up the air-flow, and then where on jersey I place my own numbers—just above the pockets, lined up with the seam of the fabric, ten pins per number. Watching people pin race numbers on for the first time was like traveling back through time, back to when I was just getting started—before the thousands of hours on the bike, before the years of commitment, before the heated debates I’ve had with other racers about the various (and deeply divided) philosophies regarding proper number placement and attachment protocol. My nostalgia only lasted a few minutes before I was forced to shift my focus back to preparing for the race, but for a few precious moments, I was a terrified college freshman about to race in my first collegiate C race. It was delightful.
Before long, the race was underway. We staged in the parking lot, then rolled out to the road, where we staged again on the start line. For the first two or three miles, the race functioned somewhat like a normal bike race. There was a large group of us, and whenever someone would go off the front, everyone would chase. Before long, however, we made the turn from Maine Highway 5, to Maine Highway 5A, and climbed up a short steep roller. This was the only part of the course steeper than 4%, and a nice place to attack. Knowing a large chunk of my family would be camped out atop the roller—I told them that would most likely be the best place to watch—I gave it full gas over the top. This completely shattered the field, and from then on, I just stared ay my powermeter, trying to keep the number above 400. By the turnaround, I clearly had the race in the bag: there was one chaser roughly a minute back, and another three or four maybe thirty seconds behind him. The Tour de Lovell is only 20 miles long, so I was able to keep things steady until the finish. I sprinted to the line and saluted the crowd (which was composed mostly of my family members). I doubled back and posed for dozens of photos, with a variety of very proud relatives. I grabbed some yogurt from the refreshments tent, and then hitched a ride back to the cabin with my grandfather.
Remembering last year’s awards ceremony, I knew I had at least an hour before I needed to be back to collect my prize. We got back to Heald Pond, where I changed into a swimsuit and took a quick swim. The water is delightfully warm this time of year, especially near the surface on a sunny day. After splashing around until I my legs felt cooled-off and my arms felt tired, I showered, tended to my roadrash, and ate. Eventually my grandmother began to get worried that I would miss the awards ceremony, which was a good thing; we drive back to the staging area, and just as I got out of the car I heard the race director say my name. I walked straight from the curb to the front of the tiny crowd, shook a few hands, gratefully accepted my trophy (awesome, huh?), posed for a few more pictures, and within ten minutes was headed back home. By then, the family reunion was in full swing: the pond was littered with tiny boats and inflatable toys, champagne was being sipped (or gulped) out of plastic flutes, and lobsters were being executed by the dozens. While they might not be very well-practiced at putting on bike races, Mainers know how to do summertime.
Before long, the race was underway. We staged in the parking lot, then rolled out to the road, where we staged again on the start line. For the first two or three miles, the race functioned somewhat like a normal bike race. There was a large group of us, and whenever someone would go off the front, everyone would chase. Before long, however, we made the turn from Maine Highway 5, to Maine Highway 5A, and climbed up a short steep roller. This was the only part of the course steeper than 4%, and a nice place to attack. Knowing a large chunk of my family would be camped out atop the roller—I told them that would most likely be the best place to watch—I gave it full gas over the top. This completely shattered the field, and from then on, I just stared ay my powermeter, trying to keep the number above 400. By the turnaround, I clearly had the race in the bag: there was one chaser roughly a minute back, and another three or four maybe thirty seconds behind him. The Tour de Lovell is only 20 miles long, so I was able to keep things steady until the finish. I sprinted to the line and saluted the crowd (which was composed mostly of my family members). I doubled back and posed for dozens of photos, with a variety of very proud relatives. I grabbed some yogurt from the refreshments tent, and then hitched a ride back to the cabin with my grandfather.
Remembering last year’s awards ceremony, I knew I had at least an hour before I needed to be back to collect my prize. We got back to Heald Pond, where I changed into a swimsuit and took a quick swim. The water is delightfully warm this time of year, especially near the surface on a sunny day. After splashing around until I my legs felt cooled-off and my arms felt tired, I showered, tended to my roadrash, and ate. Eventually my grandmother began to get worried that I would miss the awards ceremony, which was a good thing; we drive back to the staging area, and just as I got out of the car I heard the race director say my name. I walked straight from the curb to the front of the tiny crowd, shook a few hands, gratefully accepted my trophy (awesome, huh?), posed for a few more pictures, and within ten minutes was headed back home. By then, the family reunion was in full swing: the pond was littered with tiny boats and inflatable toys, champagne was being sipped (or gulped) out of plastic flutes, and lobsters were being executed by the dozens. While they might not be very well-practiced at putting on bike races, Mainers know how to do summertime.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
