It’s a good day for a small group ride…

“Here I go again on my own
goin' down the only road I've ever known.
Like a drifter I was born to ride alone.
An' I've made up my mind, I ain't wasting no more time.
Here I go again…”

Road races have never been my strength since I spent too much time toiling away on the basement trainer repeating explosive sprints after explosive sprints. Nevertheless, I decided to line up for the Elgin race since I remembered reading about the Four Bridges of Elgin back in my collegiate racing days. How bad could this one be? It’s a 50 mile road race, so the field was bound to ride an easy tempo for most of the race, right? Right? Umm, not really.

Ride out of the gates, the field hammered after that initial climb out of the first u-turn. I was stretched out over the brake hoods on the straight, flat stretch heading to the major power climbs on the course. I could already tell that the cord was stretch out fairly thin, but I was optimistic about my ability to hold the pace up the power climbs, then recover on the approach back into downtown Elgin. Here came the 1st power climb- okay, that was okay. Here came the 2nd power climb- okay, that hurt but get ready for the dinger. Here came the 3rd and most significant climb up Trout Road. A…l….m….o….s.…t…. BANG!!! I made it to the top of the climb summoning as much power out of my legs as possible, but the field kept a frantic pace on the slight riser from the softball field up the false flat to the crest. Unfortunately, I wasn’t going to join them on this day. Later, I would discover that I delivered 1,000W on that initial climb right before I was popped by the Cat 3 field. OOO-FA!!!

I joined up with two other riders and we turned a solid paceline for the entire remaining length of the race. At one point, these two guys revealed that they had traveled from California for the SuperWeek races. One of the guys turned to me and asked “Is that a normal pace for a Cat 3 race around here?!?!?” “I’m afraid so,” I responded. We rode together at an average speed of 24mph and worked the hills as hard as the wasted legs would allow us to climb. I happened to be the strongest climber of the three and led up each of the 3 hills on all remaining laps- weak consolation in a race where we were lapped numerous times by the leaders. WTF??!?!

The day was definitely better off with the teammates that were yelling support from the team tent on each and every lap. At one point, I yelled for a beer hand-off thinking that the crew would have mercy on a wounded solider (at least, wounded from a morale perspective). Imagine my surprise when Jeff Provisor was standing along the barriers with a glass bottle in his hand!!! YES, this lap was going to rock with a swig of beer to help me along the way. Right around the time when I was about to snatch that bottle with my left hand, I realize that the bottle contained iced tea and Jeff had no intention of sharing that bottle of iced tea. OOO-FA!!!

OOO-FA!!!

Rumors of my exile to Belgium to join Trappist monks in brewing Chimay are much exaggerated. No, I have been exiled to a place much more punishing than solitary confinement in a monastery with vows of poverty and celibacy- I have been relegated to Cat 3 wannabe pack fodder. It’s been an ugly month and a half from a racing perspective- leaving me fairly demoralized and less than excited about recapping incredibly disappointing races. However, I always say that you have to enjoy the sweet with the sour, so here is the beginning of my unraveling…

Most nights in Casa Hernandez, I steamroll the kids when I put them down to sleep- now, don’t go calling the social workers on me. It’s just a pretend thing that I do for fun before turning down the lights for the night. Usually, the kids grunt “OOO-FA” while I roll over them. Lights out and they drift off to bed.

Five laps into the Downer Avenue Crit- I was grunting “OOO-FA” as the lights went out on my weekend of racing. The Saturday venue for this Tour of Dairyland stage was flat as a pancake and more technical than a standard 4 corner crit. I thought that the course profile suited me well enough, so I was optimistic about a solid placing on this race. The only thing holding me back a bit was the fact that I had just completed the first week of Build training phase after a week recovery. Translation- I had just spent a week shredding some serious muscle fibers in preparation for the August peak season, so the legs weren’t going to be too happy about explosive bursts of power.

Well, just 5 laps into this race, I watched a rider a few bike lengths in front of me slide out on the 2nd to last turn. As this guy smacked the road on his right side, the bike and his body slid across to the left. I managed to dive between the dude’s bike and the curb following the line of the rider in front of me. Everyone basically freewheeled past the guy and decided to drop the hammer to close the gap on the front half of the field that had been unaffected by this wipeout. At that point, I jumped out of the saddle like a Cat 3 lemming and gave the pedals three or four hard pedal stroke. Pssst. The air seemed to go out of my left leg. Pssst. Lost the right leg as well. I just plopped right down on the saddle and watched that jersey in front of me drift further and further away. The legs were cooked and there was no way that I could recover and reconnect with the group. Done. Stick a fork in me ‘cause that race was over. OOO-FA.

I rode along with another rider who had been dropped for the remainder of the race. We each took hard pulls and took the liberty of sick lines around the turns uninhibited by the group of riders. We got lapped a few times by the field with each time leaving me to ask myself what the hell had just happened for me to have been so violently lapped. Finally, the kind USA Cycling officials decided that we were too ugly a sight for even the drunken spectators, so we unceremoniously got pulled with 2 laps to go. I decided to bail on the Waukesha race the next day to avoid the misery of blowing up again. OOO-FA!!!

The day would have been a complete colossal waste had it not been for two friends that finally grabbed solid (and well deserved) results. Teammate Matt “I’m A Cat 2 Stuck With A Cat 4 License” Samples captured a top 5 placing in the Cat 4’s and good friend Ricardo “Don’t Call Me Richard” Otero finally shook off that 2nd place curse to win the Cat 3 field. Very cool.

Frowning Cycling Gods

There are always sacrifices to make to the Cycling Gods if you’re committed to the sport. The more you commit, the deeper the sacrifices. The deeper the sacrifices, the more you will question those sacrifices at some point. The more you question, the more you will decide to skip workouts. The more workouts you skip, the angrier the Cycling Gods get. And you don’t want to go pissing off the Cycling Gods. Angry Cycling Gods- no good.

This race led me to Winfield for the first attempt at the Sunday course. I knew the Saturday Twilight course from a few years back, but held out for the Sunday event to get in one more workout. My hope was to appease the Cycling Gods before mixing it up with the Cat 3’s on Sunday. You see, I have been slacking on the training regime as of late. It started when I began to question the sacrifices, which led me to… you get the drift. I knew that the Cycling Gods had chosen that particular Sunday to unleash their fury on me at the exact moment that I saw the climb on the course’s back side. “Aww, crap,” were the first words that popped into my head. Not “nice hill” or “Can’t wait to fly up that thing”. Here was a course that would have been normally suited to my power climbing preference, but I had let my mind completely psych me out of the race before it even began. No matter how hard I tried to regain the mental edge, the Cycling Gods had doled out their punishment and I would pay for my recent lack of commitment.

Whistle blows and we are off on the 50min + 2 lap race. I actually felt very in control during the first lap, which led me to think that that Cycling Gods let me off with a warning this time around. Second lap wasn’t too bad either. I actually looked up at the sky as if to thank the Cycling Gods for their mercy. Well, I hadn’t realized that the Cycling Gods were merely toying with me on that Sunday afternoon in Winfield. On the fourth trip up the hill, the legs felt completely gassed out and I let a small gap form between me and the rider in front of me. It was almost as if everyone had rockets strapped to their chainstays, but my rockets were installed backwards. By the fifth lap, I was dropped from the field without any possibility of regaining contact. One lap later, I pulled myself from the race.

That’s right, I haven’t pulled myself out of a race since my collegiate days (almost 17 years ago), but I had angered the Cycling Gods and sacrifices had to be made. With shame, I signaled to the official and rolled off the course, only looking back to watch the field pass through once. It’d always been a sense of pride that I never dropped out of races, but I had dropped out of the training plan a few weeks ago. Now that race number hangs in front of the trainer in my basement. Those Cycling Gods are watching and I ain’t gonna piss them off again…

The Snot Bomb

Up until this past weekend, my brush with Illinois's cycling elite had consisted of clearing out parking spots between the end of my race and the beginning of theirs. Well, that all changed this past Saturday at the ABD 30+ Masters crit. Right after the conclusion of the 40+ race, I was spinning around the course doing my regular pre-race intel work while the 40 plusers cooled down from their race.

"Check it out, there's Druber and his crew. Cool. Better swing way right and pass him before the turn," I thought.

"Hey, what's Druber up to leaning over to the right towards me with a finger reaching for his nose?"

"Whoa!!! Snot bomb incoming! Snot bomb incoming!!!"

I managed to avoid the dirty bomb, but had to ride through the ensuing snot mist. Come on now, it's not like all of us haven't ridden through someone else's snot mist at some point or another. Druber was cool about it, having apologized for the oversight. Little did he know that I was in fact thankful for the oversight. You see, I was hopeful that somewhere in that snot mist hovered the DNA strand that allows Druber to hold ungodly velocities for hours on end. As I finished the warm-up lap en route to my towel, I figured that the DNA strand had plenty of time to soaked through my skin and into the leg muscles. I lined up for the 30+ race with my secret weapon under wraps. Forget EPO, I had me some DPO (Druber Potential Optimization). I have come to play, fellas!!!

The starting line to the 30+ race was truly an impressive sight. Zipps, skin suits, Jes Cisneros, and Chicago's cycling elite went as far as the eye could see. 55 riders racing for 55min + 3 laps- this was going to be a race of attrition. My guess was that the Cat 1/2's would look to drive a hard pace to shell the Cat 3/4 racers. No sir. The pace was definitely high but not unmanageable. Cornering was smooth as silk- riders weren't diving for the inside line. Instead, we were content holding our position leading into the turn.

The challenging part on that Wood Dale course was that we coasted after turn 1 and through turn 2, then cranked up the pace into the headwind and up the slight roller. After realizing that I was lingering in the back third of the strung out pack, I decided to back off the acceleration out of turn 2, then cranked up the hill to slide 5-6 spots each time. Plan was working like a charm until the pace starting inching up and I started to work harder up the hill just to maintain position. Guys were flying by when I was recovering from the effort. Then, it happened.

The cord snapped. Johnny D got a front row view of the unraveling, and started to yell something that I couldn't understand in my oxygen deprived state. Finally, I made out the words he was yelling- "DO NOT!!!". Was this guy yelling for me not to give up, or was he just cheering for himself on the sidelines?

It was at that point that the DPO finally kicked in. At that moment, I dug deep into the reserves and attacked the ascent, keeping up the effort into the front stretch. As I slipped into the "bonk zone," I looked up to see the back of the field, but didn't spot pedaling. Only when I had inched up to mid-pack did I back off the pace. Made it- at least for a few more laps.

Only 2 laps later, some guys put in a hellacious attack and I slipped off the back again. By this point, the DPO had worn off and I was pulled a few laps later. Lasted 40min and averaged 27mph until that point. Hamstrings felt like they had been torn to shreds. It was definitely strange lining up to a race without any hope of placing, winning, or attacking the field. All in all, this was a great race since it achieved the trifecta as laid out by my friend, the wise Johnny D- race was fun, I rode hard, and I didn't go down. Nice!!!

What could have been...

Ahh, Monsters of the Midway. This race has become our Sprinter's Classic- the Milan San Remo of the Midwest, but without the Cipressa. Someone at training camp asked me why I was so psyched about this race. Well, MoM has become my personal payoff for the time and discipline spent slogging through miles after miles in the basement during the winter. Great weather and fast racing are awesome payoffs for the indoor training. This year's edition featured the great weather, fast racing, 3 wrecks, and an ambulance- how I miss those relatively safe miles in the basement....

I roll up to the starting line of the Cat 3 race with solid fitness and way under-raced, so this race was a true test of the high level fitness. I was all set with a proper warm-up, including race effort sprints. Well, a lot of good that did once we had to wait 20min for paramedics to tend to the wounded soldiers from the Cat 4 race prior to ours. A South Chicago Wheelmen rider was transported via ambulance, so I hope everything worked out well for that fella. (BTW, Johnny D rode extremely well in that race, moving up effectively throughout the race. If only he had an accurate count on remaining laps).

Once the course got cleared up, we got racing underway at a furious pace. The legs were screaming for mercy fairly early in the race and I was riding cross-eyed. My jaw hit the top tube when I looked down and saw that we were only 6 minutes into the race. Now, I'm no sprint specialist or breakaway-guru, but I do know a thing or two about leveling out the exertion highs and lows during the course of a crit. That was critical to recovering from that hard start while maintaining a lead position in the pack.

As expected, the Cat 3 race was going to come down to a field sprint, so I was comfortable with my spot roughly 15th in the field coming up on bell lap. I had been moving up on the front stretch of bell lap going into the 1st corner. Outside line around the turn wasn't ideal but it would set me up for a flyer on the outside for the back stretch. "Oh crap!!!"

3 riders on a line inside of mine around turn 1 had touched wheels. Wouldn't you know it?!?! All 3 go down with the last guy falling right into my front wheel. Crashing must be the strangest feeling in the world, as the fight or flight instincts take over. Everything slows down in an almost dream-like state. You know that you're in for a world of hurt, but it's not clear what just happened until you stop sliding on your back as your helmet smacks against the curve. "Dang, that is gonna hurt tomorrow!!!!"

Suddenly, I remember that my kids and wife are standing at the finish line with cow bells and signs in hand. "Get me my bike!" I jumped back into the race with the rear derailleur hanger running against my 11t cog to finish the race. Kids were off somewhere playing tag with other kids. Wife was chatting with Johnny D and Maria. Figures...

Overall, excellent race up until the wreck. Fitness is in place and the season has just begun. Bring it on, baby. Bring it on!!!