Postby ft_critical » Sun Oct 07, 2012 12:33 am
“How much you lost?” the Illawara Hammer asked, as we rode through the Neutral Zone. “10kg,”replied Orange CC’s very own Mario Chipollini. He was wearing Chipo’s famous sunnies, and he has chocolate brown calves, shaved and oiled, just like Chipo. “I have also lost 10kg and 51 <something> fat,” continued the Hammer. Now that takes him from 60kg to like 50kg in my opinion. He looks like someone dropped a Praying Mantis in lycra. “I don’t monitor it that closely,” continued Chipo. “Hey, is this a race or weightwatchers anonymous?” Okay, I only thought that. I knew that would be the last I saw of Chipo until the final lap.
Aphorism: “In the rain, the early break often stays away.” The forecast was for belting, rain. It was only spitting but there was a strong north-easterly.
The Canary, departed early. Yellow< something> CC. The Hammer rolled across. We had only covered like 3km, we were not even at the hilly part. There was one rider from my club in the bunch; a rider I had usually watched ride off into the distance. Most notably at the World Masters where he rode off the front in a Crit, ahead of people in Russian and US national kit. Impressive. Well his riding is. As we sat under the giant Subaru Starting Balloon, the announcer couldn’t help but ask him a few questions about how many points he needed for the combined title. I looked over at him; he looked like he got dressed in a St Vincent de Paul. His white Cevelo chain stays were nearly worn through from heel strike and the decals had faded to grey. His NSCC kit was three models ago and had turned grey and pink rather than red and black. I won’t mention his shoes and helmet. St Vincent, one of the NSCC idols, crossed the double lines and headed off for the break. There was a gap to my right, I sliced through and took his wheel. Then I made the fateful decision to roll back, to roll back and wither in the bunch. It was too early, they wouldn’t let two NSCC riders bridge, there are big names still in the bunch, blah, blah, the silly logic went in my head.
The race stepped uphill into a headwind. The tempo was; attack mercilessly, then everyone sit up for a while and mooch about all over the road. The first such attack was at the base of the first step; it came from a random assortment of people with too much energy. I noted that my HR was in the overload zone. I knew it would be savage, this race, but not here, the ‘suffaaaah’ starts later. I think everyone freaked out. So we mooched.
The Sutherland boys don’t like mooching. They cracked first, “We will never get the break back like this.” Sutherland is sponsored by Endeavour Cycles; green and yellow on white. Two of them went off like scalded cats on the right. Went off to endeavour to get back the break by themselves. “It’s really slippery,” I remember a returning rider warning us as we rolled to the start. Endeavour 1, stood as he drove for the front of the bunch. 50kg, pencil legs and carbon tubs at 140psi: his back wheel span and wobbled. He resumed his seat. Once at the front they decided that we were all lame and they should hurt us. And they did. Indeed one endeavoured himself off the front. Some others for company including my-good-self. We sped away and all behind us splintered and blew. Excellent. But then we were caught and revenge was extracted.
I grovelled for a wheel having spent to much in the all too brief break. I found my wheel . I set about suffering. I started to count the grease marks on the BMC SL01 chain-stay in front of me. Indeed, I started to make shapes and stories from them like the ink blot test. I have no-idea what was happening around me. I only know in intricate detail that speckled chain-stay that helped me up the climb. There is much to see when suffering. A black and lime Willier with 60Ton stamped on the rear seat stay, what are the black circles on a Powertap hub for, so many things to ponder intensely. When the pondering no longer works, there is the begging.
After but 12km I had my first occasion to beg. ….
I turned to see how my wheelman was doing, was he suffering too? He was from Peleton Sports, a very noble, and some might say haughty club. The mucus from his nose had joined with the dribble from his month and formed the letter ‘A’. Perhaps it wasn’t an A, perhaps it was another letter, but he was suffering too, that was clear.
The wrong wheel, I had the wrong wheel. This wheel was slipping away from me. There was some sort of polarity issue. It just kept moving away. Another wheel, I must find another wheel. Racing is stupid. What makes me think dropping back and finding another wheel would help. But it did, I found this super Campy wheel that was really attracted to my Campy Neutrons. I thanked god. It was thus lucky that I decided to run Aluminium clinchers not my carbon wheels due to the weather.
Time to apply some Jedi powers, “This is not the wheel you are looking for.” Most riders, don’t like being touched in the bunch. They might like shaving and looking at each other, but the feel of skin on skin in the bunch, or lycra on lycra is repellent. I brush the wheel-stealer’s hand with mine, we rub elbows, who says it is not romantic in the bunch. He moves left and drops back to find another wheel to steal.
Lap 2. This is where the hurt happens. Do you like to hurt? Hurting is funny. I love riding someone off my wheel. Slowly, inexorably. Inexorably, that should be a cycling word. Slow death. When it happens to you, it is super-deep suck. Is it really character building to be ridden off? Nope. It just sux and you go home and deny everything. ”Come on pull through and roll turns, we are six away,” I scream breathlessly. I drive through and take the front. Then, suddenly, we are one away into the wind and the sucker is me. Alone in the wind. There is an anger you get when you drive through, it pushes you over your limits. Those five guys suck, the 50 behind them are worse. Solo. Solo. The coward racer. This is the juxtaposition we fight against. We dream of being Philip Gilbert, but fear the ignominy of the door, the back door. So we are coward racers, be conservative is a mantra for our crew. Front to back in the Peleton, it is the shortest journey. First there is begging, then there is praying, then for me there is giving in. I had placed a picture my daughter gave me in the bib-strap close to my heart. When the begging ends, I always think of her. She will always love me, no matter how badly I race. When I think of Amy it means I am ready to drop off. It is the end.
I looked behind me. I was in an unfamiliar place; last place. This is not the place to be, any good cycling book will tell you. I looked back, there was the Commissaire’s car, and behind them the Shimano support vehicle. “The support vehicle crew has been instructed that they can give you a wheel, but they cannot give you a tow,” I remember from the race briefing. The Shimano Neutral Service car was very nice, a Subaru, with lovely wide mirrors and a shiny, wide, black central pillar. A enticingly helpful looking vehicle.
De arrire de peleton, lantern rouge, tail gunner. There is a door at the back of the bunch, if you step through that door it takes you straight to hell. A LACC rider fell through the door. Chapeaux to him, he was dropped after 5km, but was determined to extract every dollar of value from his $40 entry fee. I saw him twice, in hell, set against the headwind. It is very lonely OTB.
I wasn’t going OTB. Racing is amazing. One minute you are powering off the front, the next begging, then fine again, all in the space of two minutes.
Aphorism: “If you are not a climber, move to the front at the base of the climb and roll back.” This applies when you are in the dead zone too. So I pushed to the front, driving a big gear, trying to get my HR under control. Ah, back in 5th to 10th, home at last!
It was ever so TDF. The motorcycle riders wore yellow vests over their black leathers. You would hear the engine revving out as they came up. Sadly I think they were sponsored by the NSW Police Force. In general the sign read, ‘Group warning, poor riding over the centreline.’ And “75% of lane use only.” Seldom a time check. So what comes after warning for riding over the centreline then? They stop us and give as a good, hard, sound talking to? Never mind, there were some enthusiastic sorts all along the route only too happy to provide time checks, 2min, 2min 30, 2min 45, 3min. The TT Champion killed it at the end of lap two, “That’s a race winning move if ever I saw one.” All spirit evaporated from the bunch. The chimera of teamwork was gone. Like so many rats, we began to attack each other.
My ghost visited me on the last lap. He haunts me and gives me electric shocks in my Quads, just above the knee, then in my calves until it is like a machine-gun of electric shocks. He is cramp. I stand, I shake my legs like Cancellara, I pray for better legs, I drink all my fluids. I bought some magnesium powder. It looks like I urinated in my bottle. It was too strong so I watered it down – a lot. Now it tastes most exactly like drinking an ashtray left out on the BBQ table after a storm. Am I doomed? 15km to go, a big break. I am not in it. Finally, it looks close enough for me to bridge, I fly off, standing, each leg doing a micro-cramp on each pedal stroke. I am kind of half-sprinting. Again the cycling hand-book doesn’t seem to mention half-sprinting as an approved method of bridging. Worse, I have no change-up should any of those nasty wheel-suck-leeches come around me. I am starring at my front tyre, half-sprinting from the drops. It is a Durano (my tyre), and I watch the little bits of spray flicking out of the tread and landing on my glasses. It is raining now. The Durano is not a race tyre. Am I a Durano racer? I look up, did someone push slow motion on the race remote. I am gaining uphill, but it is not fast. It is like 20m now, but it is too far. The sprint king goes around me as do two more. I can’t take a wheel, they just fly by. Finally, I think someone feels sorry for me and teleports me to the rear of the break because I don’t know how I got there.
Now we are going downhill at 60kmh maybe faster. That tail wind is awesome. My cramps are gone. They must be up-hill cramps. 5th wheel and flying. All under-control and strong. Chipo comes by on the gravel. It must be close to the finish; time for an ill-considered all-out attack I reckon. Why he doesn’t sprint with the King I don’t know, they know each other from the ‘old days.’
We are all strung out, lots of little sprint attacks, even the king has a go. I can see the finish. Third wheel centre. Perfect. I lock The Sydney CC guy on the centreline and we are all set. The secret of the finish is, not to look for wheels but to choose your own destiny. Don’t follow the player, follow the ball. Knowing and executing, they are different. The king goes, but is a positional. I have a gap, god I have gaps anywhere I like. God himself has placed a sunlight path upon the damp bitumen for me to follow. A clear and beautiful path. But I have the cramp again so I half-sprint. Half-sprinting, half works in bridging, but in sprinting, sprinting for at best fourth, it is a super-sub-optimal technique. Should I lunge for 15th? So many vexing questions in racing.
“Congratulations St Vincent,” I say. “We worked our arse off.” Now a rare gift he has, but he can’t sprint. 3rd of 3. That sux.
The town sign indicates it was founded in 1853 and has a population of 1000, exactly. 1630 on a Sat, the local boys are lined out at the pub to cheer us home. Maybe 15 of them. One is holding up the 1001th resident of Gunning, a blow up doll, full size. He is offering her to us. This might sound either naf or bogan-like but it was actually really funny and cool. As we rode past I sat up and pulled a 10ner out of my pockets and waved it at them. They thought this was very funny. To be honest, that was the best thing I had done all day.
Last edited by
ft_critical on Sun Oct 07, 2012 8:35 pm, edited 1 time in total.