Yes, the Webcor/Alto Velo Men's Elite Team has been busy racing. Too busy to keep up with posting the reports to the blog, so it seems. My apologies for not getting these up more regularly recently. We've gotten a lot of good results isince early July. Below is a summary of our recent top-5's.
5th (Miller), Lodi Crit
1st (Parnes), Idaho Crit Championships
2nd (Miller), Watsonville Crit
4th (Badia), Colavita NorCal Crit
3rd (Dubost), Fort Ord Road Race (District RR Championships)
3rd (Buchholz), Timpani Crit
3rd (Parnes) & 5th (Morenzoni), Warnerville Time Trial
3rd (Miller), Dunnigan Hills Road Race
1st (Miller), Suisun Crit
4th (Dubost), University Road Race
Reports for theses races and others have been posted below. Read on if you're interested in the blow-by-blow accounts from the races.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Rand Wins Suisun Crit
Suisun Harbor Criterium
Suisun City, CA
8/16/09
Weather: Warm, windy
Teammates: James Badia, Rob MacNeill, Ryan Parnes, Bruce Wilford (?!), Billy Crane, Bo Hebenstreit
Placing: 1st of 60
Those of you who have met me will likely agree about two things: 1) I am extremely short, and 2) I am long-winded. Where am I going with this? Well, it turns out that the Suisun Harbor Criterium and I have a lot in common.
This criterium course is most likely the shortest of the entire year, about a half-mile in length, and the narrow, tight streets are always buffeted by a strong Central Valley wind*.
After spending all of Saturday exposed to the wind, heat, and hyponatremia of Dunnigan Hills, I was not mentally prepared for another day of punishment; however, there seems to be a severe disconnection between my mind and my mouth.
"Whatcha thinkin' boy?" asked Ryan Parnes, as we donned our kits.
I should have replied, "Ugh. I feel terrible, and I just want to sit in the pack all day." That's truly how I felt. However, as I just mentioned, what I say out loud rarely reflects what goes on inside my head.
Instead, my response was, "I think we should just get FUNKY!"
Now, many of you might wonder what that means. Frankly, I'm not sure. However, I believe the loose translation is something to the effect of, "Let's attack like rabid, aggravated howler monkeys!"
Of course, Ryan and I are not the ones dictating the race strategy; we are mere pawns. The real shot-caller is Rob, along with his sidekick Bruce; both dole out the orders to the minions during the fabled "pre-race meeting."
In case you're wondering, here's how most of our Elite Team pre-race meetings proceed:
Dude Macneill starts off with, [monotone voice] "So what's the plan?" and stares around the circle at each of us, daring us to match his nonchalance.
That's when I chime in with a string of overly dramatic, expletive-ridden descriptions of the dismemberment of the fundamental life-force of our competition. It's all quite R-rated, abstract and unnecessary.
Cheery Bruce then responds calmly with, [British accent] "Alright, well, that's all dandy, but is it tea time yet? I've got to stay hydrated, right? How do you like my headband, Rand?"
James typically adds a few comments that are actually relevant (he's usually the only one), chides me for botching the finish of the previous 10 races, and flips his rock-star-esque hair back. His attitude matches his tracksuit, which also happens to match his flip-flops.
Ryan will then moan, grunt, and proclaim that he "feels terrible" and hasn't "been sleeping at all." He often laments that his legs are unshaven and that his bike is falling to pieces, a mechanical reflection of his whole life's descent into dishevelment. Then he flashes the crazy-eyes and smiles, and you know it's time to party.
Billy is pretty quiet, but that's only because he's too busy polishing his shoes and adjusting the angle of his helmet and sunglasses. He's very professional about his style, which is why we keep him around.
Bo says even less than Billy, and usually stares off at the mountains in the distance. You can tell he'd rather be on a 200-mile deathmarch in the wilderness than at a ridiculous half-mile criterium.
While most of what we discuss in these meetings is complete and utter nonsense, they are team-building exercises. They are a large part of the reason we're all so happy to be teammates.
Alright, let's get back to the Suisun Harbor Criterium proper.
Frankly, I don't have a whole lot to say about this race, so I'll keep things succinct.
I attacked on the second lap, and was brought back. Billy countered, and was brought back. Ryan countered again, and was brought back.
On lap 10 (of 72), the officials rang the bell for a prime. Tim Granshaw (Sierra Pacific) attacked, and I jumped a few seconds later. We rolled around for a lap or two before we were joined by Evan Huffman (Lombardi).
The three of us drilled it. Trust me, it hurt.
The team raced like champions back in the group, keeping the chase from gaining enough momentum to bring us back. I cannot thank these guys enough for all the work they do, each and every weekend. Steve Jones was on the radio, and deserves credit for guiding the team through the race.
Tim Granshaw, who had raced the Masters race just prior to starting the P/1/2 race, began to falter about halfway through the event. He shortened his pulls to remedy the problem, but with 20 laps to go, he cracked. It was hot, he had a lot of miles in his legs, and we were really giving it full gas. The probability of a victory for me went up, but I still felt bad for the guy.
With 1 lap to go, I latched onto Huffman's wheel. He's a former Junior National Road Champion, and I know he has a killer sprint, so I needed to play the finish carefully.
Just before the second-to-last turn, I jumped to the inside, railed the corner, and sprinted down the short straightaway with a clear gap to Evan. I settled into the saddle for a moment through the final corner, and then gave it everything I had up the final straightaway to take the win. It was nearly a carbon-copy of James' winning sprint on this same course, two years before.
Thanks again to all my teammates for their work. My constant idiotic attacks would be nothing but a laughingstock if it weren't for them.
*I realize I'm grasping at straws here, comparing "long-winded" to "Central Valley wind." My apologies.
Suisun City, CA
8/16/09
Weather: Warm, windy
Teammates: James Badia, Rob MacNeill, Ryan Parnes, Bruce Wilford (?!), Billy Crane, Bo Hebenstreit
Placing: 1st of 60
Those of you who have met me will likely agree about two things: 1) I am extremely short, and 2) I am long-winded. Where am I going with this? Well, it turns out that the Suisun Harbor Criterium and I have a lot in common.
This criterium course is most likely the shortest of the entire year, about a half-mile in length, and the narrow, tight streets are always buffeted by a strong Central Valley wind*.
After spending all of Saturday exposed to the wind, heat, and hyponatremia of Dunnigan Hills, I was not mentally prepared for another day of punishment; however, there seems to be a severe disconnection between my mind and my mouth.
"Whatcha thinkin' boy?" asked Ryan Parnes, as we donned our kits.
I should have replied, "Ugh. I feel terrible, and I just want to sit in the pack all day." That's truly how I felt. However, as I just mentioned, what I say out loud rarely reflects what goes on inside my head.
Instead, my response was, "I think we should just get FUNKY!"
Now, many of you might wonder what that means. Frankly, I'm not sure. However, I believe the loose translation is something to the effect of, "Let's attack like rabid, aggravated howler monkeys!"
Of course, Ryan and I are not the ones dictating the race strategy; we are mere pawns. The real shot-caller is Rob, along with his sidekick Bruce; both dole out the orders to the minions during the fabled "pre-race meeting."
In case you're wondering, here's how most of our Elite Team pre-race meetings proceed:
Dude Macneill starts off with, [monotone voice] "So what's the plan?" and stares around the circle at each of us, daring us to match his nonchalance.
That's when I chime in with a string of overly dramatic, expletive-ridden descriptions of the dismemberment of the fundamental life-force of our competition. It's all quite R-rated, abstract and unnecessary.
Cheery Bruce then responds calmly with, [British accent] "Alright, well, that's all dandy, but is it tea time yet? I've got to stay hydrated, right? How do you like my headband, Rand?"
James typically adds a few comments that are actually relevant (he's usually the only one), chides me for botching the finish of the previous 10 races, and flips his rock-star-esque hair back. His attitude matches his tracksuit, which also happens to match his flip-flops.
Ryan will then moan, grunt, and proclaim that he "feels terrible" and hasn't "been sleeping at all." He often laments that his legs are unshaven and that his bike is falling to pieces, a mechanical reflection of his whole life's descent into dishevelment. Then he flashes the crazy-eyes and smiles, and you know it's time to party.
Billy is pretty quiet, but that's only because he's too busy polishing his shoes and adjusting the angle of his helmet and sunglasses. He's very professional about his style, which is why we keep him around.
Bo says even less than Billy, and usually stares off at the mountains in the distance. You can tell he'd rather be on a 200-mile deathmarch in the wilderness than at a ridiculous half-mile criterium.
While most of what we discuss in these meetings is complete and utter nonsense, they are team-building exercises. They are a large part of the reason we're all so happy to be teammates.
Alright, let's get back to the Suisun Harbor Criterium proper.
Frankly, I don't have a whole lot to say about this race, so I'll keep things succinct.
I attacked on the second lap, and was brought back. Billy countered, and was brought back. Ryan countered again, and was brought back.
On lap 10 (of 72), the officials rang the bell for a prime. Tim Granshaw (Sierra Pacific) attacked, and I jumped a few seconds later. We rolled around for a lap or two before we were joined by Evan Huffman (Lombardi).
The three of us drilled it. Trust me, it hurt.
The team raced like champions back in the group, keeping the chase from gaining enough momentum to bring us back. I cannot thank these guys enough for all the work they do, each and every weekend. Steve Jones was on the radio, and deserves credit for guiding the team through the race.
Tim Granshaw, who had raced the Masters race just prior to starting the P/1/2 race, began to falter about halfway through the event. He shortened his pulls to remedy the problem, but with 20 laps to go, he cracked. It was hot, he had a lot of miles in his legs, and we were really giving it full gas. The probability of a victory for me went up, but I still felt bad for the guy.
With 1 lap to go, I latched onto Huffman's wheel. He's a former Junior National Road Champion, and I know he has a killer sprint, so I needed to play the finish carefully.
Just before the second-to-last turn, I jumped to the inside, railed the corner, and sprinted down the short straightaway with a clear gap to Evan. I settled into the saddle for a moment through the final corner, and then gave it everything I had up the final straightaway to take the win. It was nearly a carbon-copy of James' winning sprint on this same course, two years before.
Thanks again to all my teammates for their work. My constant idiotic attacks would be nothing but a laughingstock if it weren't for them.
*I realize I'm grasping at straws here, comparing "long-winded" to "Central Valley wind." My apologies.
Rand's Dunnigan Hills Race Report
Dunnigan Hills RR
Yolo, CA
8/14/09
Weather: 512 mph winds, 234 F temperature, no exaggerations.
Teammates: James Badia, Rob MacNeill, Ryan Parnes, Billy Crane, Matt Beebe, Neil Harrington, Greg Gomez, Matt Morenzoni, Bo Hebenstreit
Placing: 3rd of 60
I'm sure you're kindly attempting to hide your astonishment, but I can still sense it from here. I feel remarkably uncomfortable writing this report; we all know I'm no road racer. Nevertheless, I'm contractually obligated to compose a report, so bear with me as I muddle my way through 86 miles of misery.
The Dunnigan Hills RR--or any race that contains extended crosswind sections--provides a unique glimpse into the human psyche. Two facets of the mind reflect particularly brightly when exposed to the harsh elements of the Central Valley: self-preservation and desire.
Desire is an obvious and uninteresting topic; bike racing hurts, and if you lack the desire to win, you will fail.
Self-preservation, on the other hand, tends not to expose itself often in P/1/2 racing. Typically--with many frightening exceptions--category 1 and 2 bike racers are comfortable riding in close proximity, cornering at high speed, and coping with aggressive racing. However, when confronted with a stiff crosswind, only the truly confident cyclist will prevail. Criterium racing is dangerous, and requires a certain amount of disregard for one's own safety; crosswind racing, when done successfully, is sheer madness.
Of particular relevance to Dunnigan Hills is the battle between desire and self-preservation. No matter how well-positioned you are, you will inevitably find yourself flirting with the double-yellow, squinting through bloodshot eyes, pedaling as hard as your feeble amateur legs allow, yet struggling to maintain contact with the rider ahead.
You are then faced with three options: cross the centerline to maintain a draft, pedal harder, or drop off the pace. To observe your fellow racers at this moment speaks volumes about their character, and I recommend you observe carefully; you will gain invaluable knowledge about your competitors.
A weak man, one without morals, without sense of self-preservation, will cross the yellow line. This man cares little about his own safety (much less those behind him), and cares even less about the official's watchful eye. This is likely the same man that dives the final corner of a criterium, jeopardizing everyone's skin. I never trust such uncouth cyclists.
A different brand of weak man, this time with no fortitude and no desire, will simply slow his cadence and tell himself he's "having a bad day." He will unceremoniously exit the race at the feed zone.
A strong man will concede that his opponent's pace is fast, but not fast enough. His desire to win is temporarily eclipsed by the desire to simply hang on. But should he hang on, the strong man will eventually have the opportunity to gutter his opponents, to inflict pain upon those behind him. That is the truly beautiful part of racing in crosswinds: if you are strong, you can mercilessly crush the spirits of your competitors.
Impassioned, overwrought, superfluous soliloquies aside, let's discuss this year's edition of the race in earnest.
The first 43 miles of this race were controlled, predictable, and eerily calm thanks to a valiant first-kilometer attack by Billy Crane and Bo Hebenstreit. As the race rolled out of town--while I was exchanging banal comments with friends and generally running my loud mouth--my teammates were attacking with reckless abandon. They succeeded in establishing a ten-man breakaway before I had fully awakened from the previous night's sleep. Well done, lads.
Many riders, having missed this early move, were forced to frantically drive the pace; meanwhile, Ryan Parnes and I were able to stay protected from the brutal winds, safe in the knowledge that our teammates were fighting the wind minutes ahead of us.
Alas, this "calm before the storm" was exactly that, and heading into the second lap it was apparent that the race was preparing to blow apart. As we hit the first exposed crosswind section, Andres Gil (Pacific State Bank) and Kevin Klein (Klein Real Estate) attacked hard up the centerline, guttering the field. I found myself in the position described above, flirting with the centerline, contemplating dropping out or committing vehicular Hari-Kari with oncoming traffic.
It was during this tumultuous period that I began cursing Ryan's name between my ragged breaths. Why? While I was questioning my manhood, Ryan appeared invincible. Neither the wind nor the pace seemed to faze that hairy abomination. Spurred on by anger at Ryan's apparent strength, I pedaled with all my might. After several miles of torment, we collectively looked around to find that Klein, Gil, Parnes, Evan Huffman (Lombardi) and I were alone, with the peloton nowhere in sight.
With nothing to lose, we worked well together, everyone taking even pulls into the rugged crosswind. By the time we reached the right-hand turn into a headwind, we had caught a chase group of five, and could see the lead group dangling less than a minute ahead. A few pedal strokes later, and we swallowed them up. As I passed a withering Billy and remarkably stoic Bo, I said, "Great job. Thanks guys." Now the pressure was on Ryan and I; our teammates had suffered greatly, and I would be damned if they had suffered in vain.
Now, a group of twenty riders is at least ten riders too many, so Ryan and I moved to the front. We knew we had to increase the pace and shed some baggage. Unfortunately that likely meant shedding some teammates as well; no one said the life of a domestique was glamorous, or even fair. When we first caught the lead group, Billy said to me, "I'm pretty toast, but let me know what to do, and I'll try." Knowing that he was about to suffer at the hands of his own teammates, I simply smiled and said, "Just rest up a bit, you've done your job."
Ryan went first, hitting the gas hard, and I pulled through in an attempt to imitate his display of power.
I only wanted to shred the group and inflict unholy suffering upon those who were weak, but nothing more. I swear, I had absolutely no intention of "attacking," in spite of Ryan's insistence to the contrary. An attack with 30 miles of head/crosswind remaining would be patently moronic.
In spite of my intentions, I ended up with a gap on the field. Well, #$*%. Once you're off the front, you might as well keep going. I put my head down and punished myself for my idiocy, riding alone in agony through the majority of the final crosswind section.
Thankfully, JD Bergman (Clif Bar) relieved me of my lonesome burden as we entered the long, undulating headwind section of the course. Shortly thereafter, we were joined by Andres Gil, Evan Huffman, and a rider I still can't identify. Judging by the miles of empty road behind us, this group of five was destined for success, even with 20 miles to the finish.
Like my overworked oxen in the video game "The Oregon Trail," we set a grueling pace all the way through the headwind. We crossed I-5 with a three minute gap on the chasers, and nothing but flat, smooth, tailwind-assisted roads to the finish. We were clear, and I could finish no worse than 5th. Most importantly, I was confident in my sprint.
Hubris always strikes at the most inopportune times; just ask Oedipus. Now, that's an overly dramatic comparison, of course. I managed to avoid any uncomfortable encounters with female family members and didn't gouge my eyes out.
However, a left-leg muscle I never knew existed took issue with my confidence and, without warning, cramped violently and painfully. My breakmates looked on with surprise (and probably amusement) as I began to yelp frantically, coasting off the back while massaging my rebellious leg.
My race was over with only 10k remaining. I couldn't pedal, and I glanced toward the shoulder, searching for a soft place to land. I fumbled with my bottles, swallowing the last few milliliters so that I might remain alive until the EMT's arrived.
That's when I realized that I was coasting along at 20 mph, courtesy of the incredible tailwind. Reinvigorated, I continued some massaging, interspersed with some stretching, and finally loosened my leg to the point where I felt comfortable turning the pedals. I was nearly 40 seconds behind the leaders at this point, and I was very grumpy.
I wasted every ounce of willpower remaining in my body, and clawed myself back to the leaders as they passed the 1k to go sign. They were surprised again (though probably significantly less amused).
I won't belabor the finish. I was completely worked, and in no state of mind to adequately judge distances. The 5th, unidentified rider in the break jumped very early while the rest of us looked at each other. He won, and a heartfelt congratulations to him. I sprinted gingerly (to avoid cramping) and came across the line in third, behind Andres Gil.
Suffice to say, I hate road races, and justifiably so. I've not been that miserable after a bike race in a long time.
Letter Grades:
Tactics: D- (Ryan was supposed to be the leader, and I blew it)
Teamwork: A+ (Bo and Billy are studs)
Finish: C (Classic rookie move: letting someone else win)
Race Report Length: A+ (If you're still reading this, get a life)
Style: F (The Velopromo T-shirt has a photograph of Mike Vella on it)
Overall: B+ (My teammates' good work almost offsets my failure)
Yolo, CA
8/14/09
Weather: 512 mph winds, 234 F temperature, no exaggerations.
Teammates: James Badia, Rob MacNeill, Ryan Parnes, Billy Crane, Matt Beebe, Neil Harrington, Greg Gomez, Matt Morenzoni, Bo Hebenstreit
Placing: 3rd of 60
I'm sure you're kindly attempting to hide your astonishment, but I can still sense it from here. I feel remarkably uncomfortable writing this report; we all know I'm no road racer. Nevertheless, I'm contractually obligated to compose a report, so bear with me as I muddle my way through 86 miles of misery.
The Dunnigan Hills RR--or any race that contains extended crosswind sections--provides a unique glimpse into the human psyche. Two facets of the mind reflect particularly brightly when exposed to the harsh elements of the Central Valley: self-preservation and desire.
Desire is an obvious and uninteresting topic; bike racing hurts, and if you lack the desire to win, you will fail.
Self-preservation, on the other hand, tends not to expose itself often in P/1/2 racing. Typically--with many frightening exceptions--category 1 and 2 bike racers are comfortable riding in close proximity, cornering at high speed, and coping with aggressive racing. However, when confronted with a stiff crosswind, only the truly confident cyclist will prevail. Criterium racing is dangerous, and requires a certain amount of disregard for one's own safety; crosswind racing, when done successfully, is sheer madness.
Of particular relevance to Dunnigan Hills is the battle between desire and self-preservation. No matter how well-positioned you are, you will inevitably find yourself flirting with the double-yellow, squinting through bloodshot eyes, pedaling as hard as your feeble amateur legs allow, yet struggling to maintain contact with the rider ahead.
You are then faced with three options: cross the centerline to maintain a draft, pedal harder, or drop off the pace. To observe your fellow racers at this moment speaks volumes about their character, and I recommend you observe carefully; you will gain invaluable knowledge about your competitors.
A weak man, one without morals, without sense of self-preservation, will cross the yellow line. This man cares little about his own safety (much less those behind him), and cares even less about the official's watchful eye. This is likely the same man that dives the final corner of a criterium, jeopardizing everyone's skin. I never trust such uncouth cyclists.
A different brand of weak man, this time with no fortitude and no desire, will simply slow his cadence and tell himself he's "having a bad day." He will unceremoniously exit the race at the feed zone.
A strong man will concede that his opponent's pace is fast, but not fast enough. His desire to win is temporarily eclipsed by the desire to simply hang on. But should he hang on, the strong man will eventually have the opportunity to gutter his opponents, to inflict pain upon those behind him. That is the truly beautiful part of racing in crosswinds: if you are strong, you can mercilessly crush the spirits of your competitors.
Impassioned, overwrought, superfluous soliloquies aside, let's discuss this year's edition of the race in earnest.
The first 43 miles of this race were controlled, predictable, and eerily calm thanks to a valiant first-kilometer attack by Billy Crane and Bo Hebenstreit. As the race rolled out of town--while I was exchanging banal comments with friends and generally running my loud mouth--my teammates were attacking with reckless abandon. They succeeded in establishing a ten-man breakaway before I had fully awakened from the previous night's sleep. Well done, lads.
Many riders, having missed this early move, were forced to frantically drive the pace; meanwhile, Ryan Parnes and I were able to stay protected from the brutal winds, safe in the knowledge that our teammates were fighting the wind minutes ahead of us.
Alas, this "calm before the storm" was exactly that, and heading into the second lap it was apparent that the race was preparing to blow apart. As we hit the first exposed crosswind section, Andres Gil (Pacific State Bank) and Kevin Klein (Klein Real Estate) attacked hard up the centerline, guttering the field. I found myself in the position described above, flirting with the centerline, contemplating dropping out or committing vehicular Hari-Kari with oncoming traffic.
It was during this tumultuous period that I began cursing Ryan's name between my ragged breaths. Why? While I was questioning my manhood, Ryan appeared invincible. Neither the wind nor the pace seemed to faze that hairy abomination. Spurred on by anger at Ryan's apparent strength, I pedaled with all my might. After several miles of torment, we collectively looked around to find that Klein, Gil, Parnes, Evan Huffman (Lombardi) and I were alone, with the peloton nowhere in sight.
With nothing to lose, we worked well together, everyone taking even pulls into the rugged crosswind. By the time we reached the right-hand turn into a headwind, we had caught a chase group of five, and could see the lead group dangling less than a minute ahead. A few pedal strokes later, and we swallowed them up. As I passed a withering Billy and remarkably stoic Bo, I said, "Great job. Thanks guys." Now the pressure was on Ryan and I; our teammates had suffered greatly, and I would be damned if they had suffered in vain.
Now, a group of twenty riders is at least ten riders too many, so Ryan and I moved to the front. We knew we had to increase the pace and shed some baggage. Unfortunately that likely meant shedding some teammates as well; no one said the life of a domestique was glamorous, or even fair. When we first caught the lead group, Billy said to me, "I'm pretty toast, but let me know what to do, and I'll try." Knowing that he was about to suffer at the hands of his own teammates, I simply smiled and said, "Just rest up a bit, you've done your job."
Ryan went first, hitting the gas hard, and I pulled through in an attempt to imitate his display of power.
I only wanted to shred the group and inflict unholy suffering upon those who were weak, but nothing more. I swear, I had absolutely no intention of "attacking," in spite of Ryan's insistence to the contrary. An attack with 30 miles of head/crosswind remaining would be patently moronic.
In spite of my intentions, I ended up with a gap on the field. Well, #$*%. Once you're off the front, you might as well keep going. I put my head down and punished myself for my idiocy, riding alone in agony through the majority of the final crosswind section.
Thankfully, JD Bergman (Clif Bar) relieved me of my lonesome burden as we entered the long, undulating headwind section of the course. Shortly thereafter, we were joined by Andres Gil, Evan Huffman, and a rider I still can't identify. Judging by the miles of empty road behind us, this group of five was destined for success, even with 20 miles to the finish.
Like my overworked oxen in the video game "The Oregon Trail," we set a grueling pace all the way through the headwind. We crossed I-5 with a three minute gap on the chasers, and nothing but flat, smooth, tailwind-assisted roads to the finish. We were clear, and I could finish no worse than 5th. Most importantly, I was confident in my sprint.
Hubris always strikes at the most inopportune times; just ask Oedipus. Now, that's an overly dramatic comparison, of course. I managed to avoid any uncomfortable encounters with female family members and didn't gouge my eyes out.
However, a left-leg muscle I never knew existed took issue with my confidence and, without warning, cramped violently and painfully. My breakmates looked on with surprise (and probably amusement) as I began to yelp frantically, coasting off the back while massaging my rebellious leg.
My race was over with only 10k remaining. I couldn't pedal, and I glanced toward the shoulder, searching for a soft place to land. I fumbled with my bottles, swallowing the last few milliliters so that I might remain alive until the EMT's arrived.
That's when I realized that I was coasting along at 20 mph, courtesy of the incredible tailwind. Reinvigorated, I continued some massaging, interspersed with some stretching, and finally loosened my leg to the point where I felt comfortable turning the pedals. I was nearly 40 seconds behind the leaders at this point, and I was very grumpy.
I wasted every ounce of willpower remaining in my body, and clawed myself back to the leaders as they passed the 1k to go sign. They were surprised again (though probably significantly less amused).
I won't belabor the finish. I was completely worked, and in no state of mind to adequately judge distances. The 5th, unidentified rider in the break jumped very early while the rest of us looked at each other. He won, and a heartfelt congratulations to him. I sprinted gingerly (to avoid cramping) and came across the line in third, behind Andres Gil.
Suffice to say, I hate road races, and justifiably so. I've not been that miserable after a bike race in a long time.
Letter Grades:
Tactics: D- (Ryan was supposed to be the leader, and I blew it)
Teamwork: A+ (Bo and Billy are studs)
Finish: C (Classic rookie move: letting someone else win)
Race Report Length: A+ (If you're still reading this, get a life)
Style: F (The Velopromo T-shirt has a photograph of Mike Vella on it)
Overall: B+ (My teammates' good work almost offsets my failure)
Bo Takes on Patterson Pass
Patterson Pass RR
Sunday Aug. 9, 2009
P 1/2
Teammates: Parnes, Billy, Gomez, Thomas
Placing: 18th of 40ish
I had not planned on doing this race due to the fact that it is probably the cruelest race on the calender. When I thought about it during the week I used positive thinking and said that is my favorite kind of race, a long race with long steep climbs that you just need to grind out!
I rode my bike from the parking lot to registration (500 ft) I looked at my tire only to see a goat head in my tubular. What! When I removed it I could tell it had gone in deep. I spit on the tire and there was no bubbles to be seen, how lucky is that? Surely a good sign of things to come, I love tubulars.
We lined up at 8am and the field seemed to be twice as large as in previous years. All the usual suspects were there, lots of Berrys, Zzzz etc.
I was happy to see four of my teammates willing to suffer along with me, Billy, Ryan P, Greg G. and Thomas
My goal was to see Parnes ride off into the sunrise and so I could just survive the four laps of hell.
I very strategically place myself at the back of the pack to avoid the brutal winds of Altamont pass (anyone notice all the windmills spinning?)
The race started out a manageable pace up the main climb. At the right hand corner leading to the next significant but smaller climb I noticed a surge in the pack. This must be the escape trying their first move of the day I thought. Later I found out it was Parnes trying to make a move only to blow himself up. After that things settle down again for the remainder of the climb. When we started the decent towards 580 I saw that there was a group that had a gap. The peleton kept the escape pretty much in sight for the remainder of the lap.
The second time up Patterson Pass the peleton fell apart. I now started to realize it was getting freaken hot. With most of the pack now in front
of me I decided to just take it easy and get in a group. I saw Billy up the road and yelled at him to hold up a second. Billy was having mechanical problems and was not able to get into the big ring. While this was not so much a problem on Patterson Pass, there was no point in getting over climb for him so he called it a day. I joined up with three other riders on the descent and finished lap 2 with them.
Coming into the feed zone on lap 3 I was completely overheated. I actually stopped my bike and had Amy douse me with water before I continued. Two of the guys I was riding with quit right there.
I rode the third and fourth lap solo. With about 6 miles to go I came upon a guy who had been in the break and was so trashed I though he might die. I rode with him the remainder of the lap just to make sure he made it in okay.
Thanks for reading, Bo
Sunday Aug. 9, 2009
P 1/2
Teammates: Parnes, Billy, Gomez, Thomas
Placing: 18th of 40ish
I had not planned on doing this race due to the fact that it is probably the cruelest race on the calender. When I thought about it during the week I used positive thinking and said that is my favorite kind of race, a long race with long steep climbs that you just need to grind out!
I rode my bike from the parking lot to registration (500 ft) I looked at my tire only to see a goat head in my tubular. What! When I removed it I could tell it had gone in deep. I spit on the tire and there was no bubbles to be seen, how lucky is that? Surely a good sign of things to come, I love tubulars.
We lined up at 8am and the field seemed to be twice as large as in previous years. All the usual suspects were there, lots of Berrys, Zzzz etc.
I was happy to see four of my teammates willing to suffer along with me, Billy, Ryan P, Greg G. and Thomas
My goal was to see Parnes ride off into the sunrise and so I could just survive the four laps of hell.
I very strategically place myself at the back of the pack to avoid the brutal winds of Altamont pass (anyone notice all the windmills spinning?)
The race started out a manageable pace up the main climb. At the right hand corner leading to the next significant but smaller climb I noticed a surge in the pack. This must be the escape trying their first move of the day I thought. Later I found out it was Parnes trying to make a move only to blow himself up. After that things settle down again for the remainder of the climb. When we started the decent towards 580 I saw that there was a group that had a gap. The peleton kept the escape pretty much in sight for the remainder of the lap.
The second time up Patterson Pass the peleton fell apart. I now started to realize it was getting freaken hot. With most of the pack now in front
of me I decided to just take it easy and get in a group. I saw Billy up the road and yelled at him to hold up a second. Billy was having mechanical problems and was not able to get into the big ring. While this was not so much a problem on Patterson Pass, there was no point in getting over climb for him so he called it a day. I joined up with three other riders on the descent and finished lap 2 with them.
Coming into the feed zone on lap 3 I was completely overheated. I actually stopped my bike and had Amy douse me with water before I continued. Two of the guys I was riding with quit right there.
I rode the third and fourth lap solo. With about 6 miles to go I came upon a guy who had been in the break and was so trashed I though he might die. I rode with him the remainder of the lap just to make sure he made it in okay.
Thanks for reading, Bo
Buchholz's report from Timpani Crit
Team: Rob, James, Graham, Shin, Bruce, Greg, Rand, Neil, Matt Morenzoni, Matt Beebe, Brian Peterson, Thomas, Brian Buchholz (3rd)
Thanks for reading!
BP
Bang the drum for another edition of the Timpani Criterium, held in the shadows of Great America in picturesque Santa Clara, CA. Save for a ton of wind, this course is 1.25 miles of wide open office park, two cone slalom courses, a carbon rim-eating pothole and 85 other riders with their eye on the prize.
The 65 minute race started with some pre-race re-pinning (thanks Bruce!) and some Official Megaphone volume boost by Steve Reaney; just to be sure everyone knew that free laps ended with 3 to go.
It was a fairly fast criterium (I had 44 kph average), but the wind on the back stretch really made it difficult for stuff to get away. I think I counted 10-12 attacks during the first 2/3s of the race, but nothing got more than 15 seconds. Neil, Greg, Thomas, Rob, James, Matt^2, Brian, etc. all made some mad dashes off the front to cover moves nicely.
Rand "Bam Bam" Miller was out to bang his head and seemed to either initiate or cover every other move off the front. That guy is a machine. You can always tell it's him (and not his doppelganger Rob) by the pimp white full-finger gloves.
This was my first race back with Bruce and I was super stoked to see him out there swingin' it again for the Big Green Machine! Bruce made some nice covers and was really present at the front of the race with 5 laps to go. Plus, he let me touch his super sick Lew Wheels. I think just touching them dropped a couple pounds from my fat frame.
Ok, I digressed a little bit. Five laps to go and I think the peloton came to the conclusion that it would be a field sprint. A few guys attempted some flyers here and there, but the wind seemed to get stronger and the flyers dangled off the front as if they were stuck in flypaper. Graham, Greg, Bruce, Brian, Matt and Rob made a great move to the front and made a super hard lead out effort with three to go. Then, with one to go Giant took over and Pat, Steve and Keith were at the front. I tried to slot in on Keith's wheel but there was a lot of "bumping and barging" (Paul Sherwin speak) for the wheels and ended up behind Dave McCook and Kevin Klein.
I took an outside line through the last corner and came around Kevin for third with Dave in second and Keith in first.
Great to see so many teammates out. Looking forward to a strong end to the season.
BP
Ryan's Report from Cascade Classic Stage Race (NRC)
This is my race report for Cascade. It is really, really long. I won’t be offended if you don’t read it, I just want you to know what you’re getting into. I’d recommend you do yourself a favor and either just check cyclingnews, where you can read about people who actually did cool stuff in this race(as opposed to just suffering), or read the report from the Webcor Womens team. They laid the smack down on women’s pro cycling and I guarantee their report will be more uplifting than mine.
Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Stage One: Smith Rock Road Race.
The first stage was a “flat” 71 mile road race. I guess it was pretty much flat, save for one daunting(for me) climb and then the miles of false flat headwind that followed it. It got up to about 98 degrees for our race and the tempo matched the temperature.
But let me back up for a minute. I managed to miss registration, along with every other amateur cyclist from 3 states that I spoke with. I went to reg one day and there were 90 spots open, but I was late for dinner. When I came back two days later the 150 man field was full. I got on the waiting list with Fabrice, but they let in a couple of pro teams before us bringing the total field to 188. When I called two days before the race they told me not to even bother, but I’ve been planning to do this race all year so I was committed. Fredo and I did the 6hr drive from Boise and went straight to reg. They told us they couldn’t do a thing for us until reg officially closed at 8:30. So we unpacked our bags, took a little spin and then went back at 7:50. They told us it might actually happen, but we needed to be back at 8:30 on the nose. Just enough time to grab a burrito and make it back in time to hear that we were in! I worked late into the night getting my Giant into pristine condition and mounting my frame number in such a way as to comply with Rand’s high standards.
In the end I was up so late taping and trimming that damn number that I almost missed the start. We still had to swap cassettes and such before the race and when all was said and done we only got to the start with 15 minutes to go. That is not enough time for your average cyclist to get dressed, mix bottles, pump tires, load up with Powerbars and still have time to sign in and then find a bush, but this was not my first Rodeo. I had everything done in time to chill at the starting line and test my Spanish as Oscar Sevilla et al bantered back and forth.
The race was fast. Very fast. People were attacking from the gun and I spent the first 40k trying to find the front of the race. We’d be flying along at 35mph and then the whole field would slam on the brakes, make a 90 degree turn and then sprint back up to 35 as fast as possible. I may have feared for my life once or twice, but I am not a professional; no one is paying me to be fearless and I have to scrub my own wounds.
A break did finally form at about 40k, or just before I got up front. This is not a coincidence. When a break does go, things will slow. It’s a rule. I saw some BMC rider wind up for a bridge attempt and I figured I’d give it a go. I tried to get on his wheel, but he was strategically ramping up to a full launch timed to slip him past the field right before a huge RV clogged most of the left lane. Like I said, he’s a professional and I am not. I braked, he flew. I think he was one of the few people who got up to the move. I tried a little attack after that, but it was all for show and I settled back into the pack.
And not a moment too soon. The climb, which was actually substantial in my book, was fewer than 5 miles out and I would not have recovered had I been trying to bridge. Steve Reaney of CalGiant attacked after me, and that effort cost him. He hit the climb right after his effort and couldn’t hold the pace. I did my best to stay up front and keep out of the red, but towards the top I started going backwards. Not tragically backwards, just sort of drifting back as lighter riders (and really, who isn’t lighter than me?) floated past. I stayed with the group, albeit towards the back, and then we were all strung out and flying through the feed zone.
Why do major races insist on putting feed zones on flat ground when they know the pack is going to be screaming through at over 30mph? I don’t know, but if you find out will you tell me? Some guy from the Cole Sports team was right in front of me and knocked every neutral bottle he reached for to the ground. A perfect 3 for 3. I almost nabbed the last one out of the air as he bobbled it (that’s how badly I wanted that water), but I was already cooking on the bike and couldn’t ninja it. I used my last bit of energy to shake my head at him as I came around.
The next part of the race was pretty vicious. Garmin or some team had missed the break (I think cal Giant missed out too) and they were leaving pieces of themselves and the field all over the road as they drove a mad pace over a false flat into a strong head/crosswind. The whole field was strung out single file, save for a few brave (or stupid) riders who were trying to move up. I was cooked from the climb, cooked from the brutal sun, and still simmering about the missed feed and it was all I could do to hang onto the wheel in front of me.
With maybe ten miles to go those teams realized that the race was up the road never to return and things finally slowed down. I was begging for water at that point and a few kind souls obliged. I managed to get back into the caravan for some neutral water, but at that point there were only about 4 miles left. Oh well. As we were coming into the finish some hometown heroes were getting ready to sprint for 25th place. There was no small bit of derision flung their way by real professionals, until Freddy Rodrigues went up front to give it a whirl. Funny, no one gave him any crap for sprinting for 25th, but that’s the way it goes. If you’re an amateur you get crapped on, and you only really deserve it 95% of the time. That’s just the way it is. I rolled it in with the main field for a very pleasing 115th. Ben JM won the stage in style with clean wheels and dedicated the win to Chris Hipp. Class all the way.
It turns out the wheel that I thought was “out of true” had a broken spoke and my brakes had been rubbing for who knows how long. After realizing that I didn’t feel so bad about rolling in with the pack. P.S. Winners avg speed was just shy of 30mph. Yikes.
Stage 2 : Three Creeks Road Race.
This stage was more of the same, except the climb didn’t come until the end of the stage and it was roughly a thousand times harder. That’s an estimate, and I’m not great with math, but you get the picture. I had gone to a local shop the day before to get the spoke fixed and try to figure out why I couldn’t shift into my 11. Seth, the wrench there, was about he nicest guy you could hope to find, but after about an hour and a half of work, changing out the cables and housing, 4 test rides and every other trick in the book he still couldn’t figure it out. He ended up charging me 5 bucks for the wheel and everything and wishing me well. When you’ve got one of the biggest races on your calendar the next morning you’re kind of at the mercy of the shop and they can really bend (haha that’s a pun!) you over. Having someone do his best to help you, and when that doesn’t work cut you some slack and let you off with a small bill and best wishes is like a blessing.
I showed up super early for stage 2 to let the pros at Shimano Neutral Support give it a whirl. I’d leave the bike with them, put on some kit and come back for a test ride, then sign in, then test ride, then mix bottles, then test ride. With about 7 minutes before the start the head honcho finally figured out it was a bad chain. Turns out a bad chain can keep you blocked out of the 11. Who knew? With no warmup and that same ultra-rushed feeling I rolled backwards on the course to the front of the pack and sat for less than two minutes before we were off.
Like I said, more of the same: a furious pace punctuated with heartstopping fits of braking and all out sprints back up to speed. This kept up for like 30 miles until we came to the feed zone. Let me tell you one nice thing about having a team and a car in the caravan. If you’re smart, you can get all the food and drink you need from the car and you never have to worry about the utter shitshow that is the 30mph feedzone. Not so for me, lone wolf that I am. I am at the mercy of the neutral feed, and often left to beg, borrow or steal a few drops of water to keep the legs turning.
Now Garmin is one of those teams with a follow car full of lots of tasty and refreshing treats. They decided to get all their feeding done before the feedzone and then attack the hell out of the pack as the rest of us poor devils were trying to get a drink. Again, the neutral feed was totally useless, and it was only a bit of luck and the good will of an ex-Webcor rider that saved the day. That’s right, Australia’s own Jono Coulter (now the swany for Bissell) looked up at just the right moment to see the look of despair on my face. Not a word was exchanged between us in that fraction of a moment. Our eyes met, I nodded, pleading and he whipped a bottle up slick as you please to save my race. It was maybe the smoothest handup I’ve ever gotten and all this at over 30 while the field was ripping itself apart. Jono, you’ve always been my friend. On that day you were my hero.
I was so happy to have a bottle that I almost missed the fact that the pack was splitting. I was a little too far back, having been futilely looking for a neutral feed and when the course made a 90 left it went form a headwind to a nasty cross and Garmin echeloned their whole team and started riding like there was some big, argyle lemonade stand just up the road. I was on a pro wheel (I won’t say form what team) and we were just a few feet off the back of the front group, so close we could have poked them with a long stick. But we were going hard out and not making up ground so he pulled off, leaving me to flail like ragdoll, killing myself and still unable to get across. I gave what I had but had to pull off too, only to see a group of 7 pros sprint across the gap.
The next 20 minutes or so were pure desperation. I got back in line with a group of maybe 20 or so guys who had been split off and we tried to keep cool, take pulls and catch back on, but it was a bit disorganized and the guys in the front group were not slowing. We finally caught back on, but we caught back on to the tail end of a strung out field and as we were trying to catch our breath the guys at the front were accelerating again. So that’s how it went for a while. It would get strung out, gaps would open that I’d try to jump around, and then it would slow down enough for me to rest for a sec, then they’d be attacking again and it would string out once more. That sucked.
I think a break finally got off and things let up. We actually chilled up the mid-course KOM (a true blessing) and then as we rolled into the town of Three Sisters things got nuts again. They had us do a totally loony series of 90 degree turns (maybe a dozen in all) that had the pack going like the slinky from hell. After 60 miles of kicking my own ass just to stay in the group the last thing I needed was a dozen hard our accelerations. I did make it through that chaos and was solidly in the group (quite an accomplishment at that point) when some knuckleheads crossed wheels and a ton of people hit the deck in front of me. I had to come almost to a complete stop to get around and as I tried to sprint back onto the tail end of the field I knew my day was done. I could see the final climb of the day looming in front of me and I figured then was as good a time as any to start riding my own pace. So that’s what I did.
The last climb was nothing if not painful. I can’t imagine what it was like up front, but at least they got it out of the way quickly, right? I was doing what I could to keep a good pace, ever wary of the time cut. I managed to beg some water off friends in the caravan as they came speeding by (you guys from Bobs-Bicycles were awesome and I thank you!). It was so hot that it felt like the skin on my arms was being cooked. I was swerving back and forth across the road to find shade. Truly brutal. I actually caught some people on the climb and made it with plenty of time to spare. I drank just about everything I could see and then begged a ride back to town with some kindly Z-Team folk.
Ouch.
Stage 3: Skyliners Time Trial.
This was perhaps the lamest race of my life. After my ride at the first stage of Nature Valley I’ve been trying to convince myself that I’m actually a decent time trialist, but I hadn’t really been on the TT bike since then it was a tough argument to make with myself. I awoke feeling sick and totally drained form the day before. It was hard to eat and I was not feeling better as the start time drew nearer. I was all by myself for this one and had to do all those little things that need doing before the start without even a little bit of camaraderie to lighten the mood. I was not moving fast enough given how I felt and I ended up getting a less than stellar warmup.
I made it to the start gate on time and away I went chasing Ozzie Olmos from Cal Giant. I knew right away that it wasn’t going to be pretty. Then Jesse Seargent of Livestrong passed me about a minute into my TT. He passed me like I was standing still. That was a small psychological blow to accompany the physical pain I was already feeling. The course is just an out and back that goes up and up and up on the way out and then comes screaming back. I was just trying to keep a rhythm and stay close to Ozzie.
Then things started getting tough. I was feeling all sorts of bumps in the road, but when I looked down the tires looked fine and there were definitely bad sports in the pavement. I made it to the turnaround and something was definitely not right. However, instead of stopping and checking stuff out I just put my head down and flogged myself. I guess it sounds crazy to keep going when something is out of whack, but who stops to check out their rig in the middle of a TT? I got maybe a k down the road and realized that my front tire was dead flat. The only neutral was at the turnaround so I had to flip it and go backwards on the course, limping along and screaming for service. They got to me, got me a change in pretty good time, but after doubling back already I was in pretty deep trouble and I knew it.
I gave it everything I had. I flogged myself down that hill spinning away in the 56x11 and passed maybe 5 or 6 guys. It was awesome. I’ve never gone that fast in a TT and it was a rush. Alas, it was all for naught. I caught and passed F-Rod with less than a K to go, but that got me to thinking. Freddie had started a minute and a half behind me and he is not exactly known for his time trialing.
I kept up hope, but in the end I was pretty far gone. Freddie ended up getting time cut himself and I was almost a minute and a half behind him so you get the picture. That’s right, I got time cut for flatting in a TT. I actually emailed the race director and showed up early before the next stage (having done my race prep just in case) to argue my case with the officials, but they didn’t care. And like that, my race was done.
I was in a bit of a funk. Okay, I was heartbroken, but it never does any good to just sit around bumming out. Huxley once wrote that, “rolling in the muck is not the best way of getting clean,” and I try to remember that when I’m feeling down. So instead of pouting I floated the river on a beautiful Bend afternoon, drank a few beers, made some new friends and ate well. Turns out that’s exactly what I needed. Since then I’ve been doing some solid resting and some good training and just generally trying to get ready for Elite Nationals, which start this Thursday.
If you’ve actually read this far you are the true hero of the day. In fact, I should probably pay you as this writing has been wonderfully cathartic. I only hope that Webcor can rally and send a big team up here to wreck house next year. Oh wait! Webcor already crushed this race into tiny little pieces. Big props to the Webcor Women who dominated this race from start to finish and left everyone else asking for the plates of the big green semi that rolled through town and left utter destruction in its wake. Yes, they were that awesome.
Ryan's Report from Idaho Elite Crit Champs
This race could not be less like the Boise Twilight. Its held in the middle of the day in a small development up in the hills that is eerily reminiscent of Pleasantville. There are few spectators and the field has in the past included zero professionals (there was one this year, yippee!) and barely any locals. I think there were just over 30 racers this year. Its enough to make a guy want to hightail it back to California!
The course is 4 corners, with a slight descent after turn one, a wide chicane and long false flat headwind after turn two and a quick 3, 4 and then a narrow little chicane maybe 250 meters before the finish that brings the field down to 1 or 2 abreast. It was hot, but not as hot as the day before. I’d say a much more reasonable 95 or something. Between the heat and a somewhat rowdy night after the Twilight I was not exactly feeling my best, but I’m actually the defending champ so I figured I’d better pull it together.
The race was pretty ridiculous. There were a few half-hearted attacks, but no one who got up the road wanted to work. I covered a few, let a few go, and basically tried to stay interested and remember to drink water. A break had gone the year before and people had won in breaks in just about every category that had already raced, so it seemed inevitable that a break would decide the race.
Sure enough someone finally put in a solid effort and we were a group of 7 working well together and gaining time. Then they rang the bell for a fifty dollar prime (fifty bucks! Thems Twilight figures!) and when nobody jumped immediately Ben King from FlyV took off, all the while looking back as if to say, "Are we racing here or what?" Everyone was just looking around at each other, so I figured this was my chance to whittle it down a bit. I lit out and managed to catch him before the chicane to take the prime. When I looked back we had a gap and I gave it some gas. I couldn’t really think of a better position to be in than up the road with the one guy I knew to be a serious racer.
We were working well together and caught the field before too long, but that’s when things got ugly. We were trading strong pulls, but the field was just sitting on us. That’s not illegal or anything, its just really lame and I told him we should get out of there. His big plan for that? Turn around and wave his hand at the people who had been lapped and tell them to “$&*@ off!” Rude it may be, but what with him flailing around, the look of puzzlement on the faces in the field and his Aussie accent it made for a pretty comical scene.
Alas, he realized why I so badly wanted to get out of there when someone clipped his wheel in the second turn and he took a bad spill. I had been leading through the turn and took the opportunity to get the heck out of there. Ben brushed himself off and jumped back in with me and then it went to laps. He was pretty out of it, his jersey was shredded and he was bleeding a lot, so he said he wouldn’t sprint me if I’d roll it. The officials were yelling something at us, but we couldn’t really understand what. The 5 other guys caught the field and gave good chase, getting the gap down to 7 seconds with 3 to go, but I managed to stay away and take the win.
I’m not saying I don’t like to win, but this one just wasn’t that satisfying. There really wasn’t anything pretty about this race, least of all my salute where I almost crashed (I don’t want to know what Rand would have to say about that). The one guy I would have loved to go head to head with got crashed out, and then the officials took things from bad to worse. They told Ben that because he hadn’t taken a free lap he was one lap down and had finished last out of the people who had lapped the field, outside the money. They didn’t care at all that he had been with me when he crashed, or that it was the Moto Official who told him to jump in with me. They simply would not budge. Seems like an odd way to grow cycling in Idaho doesn’t it? Taking the single real bike racer and just crapping on him. But that’s what happened. Someone asked him if he was from Idaho and he said, “Don’t even start.” And the Aussie accent isn’t as cute deadpan. I ended up splitting my prize money with him, but that was small consolation as a win in the Idaho State Crit is worth less than 22nd at the Twilight. Oh well.
I rode a good race, felt strong and didn’t crash trying to post up, so I’ll count it as a success. Alas, my license says California on it, so I did not get my Idaho State Crit Champ T-shirt/Jersey thingy this year, but someone out there has it and is loving it.
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