I was raised on a legend that my Grandpappy would whisper time and time again. He tells about a band of rebels that used to strike fear in the hearts of lawmen from Palatine to Gurnee. These guys were bad, but I mean real bad to the core. The way my Grandpappy tells it, these guys started riding around many, many years ago and they didn’t straddle horses like the other wannabe posses in town. No sir, these fellas didn’t even straddle the iron horses favored by some of the others. That was all too played out for this band of rebels. They straddled horses made of aluminum, carbon fiber, and steel. Just to prove how bad they were, these guys wore lycra outfits of all things, and they still struck fear in the hearts of the lawmen and plain ol’ lesser men. In fact, my granddaddy remembers a time when the five rebels surprised him by sneaking up on him and yelling “On Your Left”. The way my Grandpappy tells it, his full head of hair turned stark white at that exact moment.

This posse was led by none other than “Knobby Provisor”. The way my Grandpappy tells it, “Knobby Provisor” was partial to something called a “cross bike”, but legend has it that the ladies down at the brothel started the nickname as a way of implying something very, very different. It was like the way the ladies called the brothel owner "Shorty" when the guy was over seven feet tall. The largest, craziest fella in the bunch was “Birdman Fotland”. The way my Grandpappy tells it, this guy was something of a crazed man. He would name each of his victims after some bird right before planting a tread mark across their forehead. This guy wouldn’t eat pork because he was something called a “Hindu”- my Grandpappy never could explain that one to me. “Brazilian Bob” Vaz de Costa was the ladies man among the five rebels. The way my Grandpappy tells it, “Brazilian Bob” liked his ladies to have the smell of espresso on their breath. Now, “Southie” Dongoski was the meanest fella this side of the Mississippi. The way my Grandpappy tells it, this fella liked to take on lawmen in face-to-face verbal combat. Many a lawmen were forced into retirement after 10 minutes of his sharp tongue. Then, there was Cameron- they called him “The Kid”. Too bad that he got mixed up in a rude bunch like that crew.

My Grandpappy tells the story of a new Sheriff in a small up and coming town called Barrington Hills. Seems like he had it out for this band of rebels. This sheriff passed a law outlawing horses made of aluminum, carbon fiber, and steel on the exact stretch of road favored by these five. Well, the way my Grandpappy tells it, the lawman didn’t make these five rebels none too happy, so they made it clear that at high noon on Sunday, they were going down to give that Sheriff a piece of their mind. Women and children were running for shelter when these guys turned right on Spring Creek Road. The men of Barrington Hills watched in amazement as the Sheriff followed right behind them as they broke the law in clear daylight. The way my Grandpappy tells it, the lawman tried to throw these five rebels in the county jail, but the Judge knew better than to summon the rage of this posse, especially that “Birdman Fotland”. Legend has it that just the week before the “Birdman” had planted a treadmark on the Judge. In fact, my Grandpappy swears that he could still see a faded treadmark on the Judge that morning of the trial. Well, that Judge did the right thing and let the posse of five go free. From that point on, these five became known as the “Barrington Hills Five”.

Legend has it that the “Barrington Hills Five” still roams the streets of this fair city. The way my Grandpappy tells it, they prefer to ride around at night when they can really strike fear on the fair citizens of these counties. In fact, the “Barrington Hills Five” have been known to hold up METRA trains wielding menacing water bottles and intimidating frame pumps. So, if your sitting in a METRA train some dark night especially around Barrington Hills and notice five lights blazing in the dead of night, hold on to your wallets because you may just become part of the “Barrington Hills Five” legend….

Oh, the Carnage…

One hour to race time and I'm working the trainer at 150W as the start of my warm-up. Let\'s go through the mental checklist on more time.

Helmet? Check.
Shoes? Check.
Number pinned? Check.
Main Street Bicycles socks on? Check.
Legs here for the race? Ah, now that is the million dollar question. Those legs have been off somewhere hiding for the last month. Training has eased since I'm in the Peak phase with the Race phase kicking off next week. Avid readers of my posting are well aware that the 3's have proven to be somewhat of an enigma for me this year. After a 50min warm-up with 6 power accelerations, it was time to roll up to the line to play one more round of “Can Ed Ride Like a Cat 3 Racer Today?”

Just as I was packing things up before heading over to the starting line, my bud Marc Moeller stopped by to wish me luck. I hadn’t spoken to him much since the season started to slide on me, so I just vented a bit of frustration about not being able to find a good set of legs once the Hurt Fest commenced during any given race. Marc voiced exactly what I have been thinking but needed to hear out loud- Racing is about a positive state of mind. When the body feels like quitting, your mind has to deliver that nitro boost that redirects you from the ledge towards a solid result by the end of the test. On that morning, Marc was my Yoda (“Do or do not. There is no try.") Of course, Yoda was three feet tall and green while Marc is 6’3” and from Elgin, but you get the point.

I found myself a good waiting point that allowed me to roll into the third row from the starting line. There must have been some 150-175 riders in that field- unbelievable!!! Right at the gun, I clipped in with ease and passed 5 riders with a solid initial acceleration. That 50min warm-up on the trainer was spot on since I felt much more in control of the effort right from the start compared to my previous races. I settled into a groove fairly early and moved up a handful of spots on a slight riser on the back stretch of the course. The killer section was the left hand turn approach the bridge since everyone slowed to a crawl then accelerated up the hill to the final straightaway. Time after time, we unloaded serious wattage on that hill and time after time, I felt more confident on my chances to deliver that much needed finish. Then, that moment of truth occurred.

Someone dangerous must have broken away from the group on the back stretch because all hell broke loose in the peloton. People were jumping out of the saddle. Hips and shoulders were rocking. And that voice in the back of my mind was telling me to look for a nice shaded area to view the rest of the race in about 10min. I was cross-eyed working those pedals to muster enough power to stay with the field. I managed to cover that initial acceleration knowing that the hard hill over that bridge would prove to be the ultimate test so early in this race. Here comes the hard left into the hill. Brake pads were squealing something fierce and the smell of heated rubber was horrific. The rider in front of me jumped out of the saddle and gapped me momentarily. I tried matching his move, but the legs were just tapped out at that precise moment of truth. By the time the hill leveled off slightly, some 5 riders had come around me and I wasn’t able to jump on their wheel. OOO-FA. Here we go again…

As I came around the turn, my previous conversation with Yoda (I mean, Marc) immediately came to mind. “You WILL NOT be gapped by the field!!!”- I yelled at myself (silently of course). Just then, I dug in one more time and manage to ride up to the wheel in front of me. At that moment, I looked over to the official clock and saw “10:33”. The field had just put me in serious difficult just 10 minutes into a 50 minute crit. Dang, this was definitely going to hurt, but I remained positive and reminded myself that conversing energy was critical if I was going to recover from that deep dive into my reserve tank. It took me a full lap to recover from that effort, but I got back to stealing back a placing here and there when possible.

I must admit that I rode rather conservatively from that point on since my previous unraveling left me a bit cautious about digging deep to move up 10-15 spots only to get popped by the field yet again. Of course, the other element at play was the number of wrecks that occurred in the field. At one point, I wondered if a sniper was sitting on some rooftop overlooking Grant Park using us for target practice. By the end of the race, no less than 4 crashes had taken out numerous riders, including one crash on the final corner of the final lap as some moron decided to swing across the field as if he had just driven Mark Cavendish’s lead out train down the Champs-Élysées. I am one of the riders that flew by that wreck on the outside before setting up for the final turn of the final lap within the field.

Hold up- in fact, you did read that last previous sentence correctly- “the final turn of the final lap within the field.” I can’t begin to explain the euphoria of finishing right in the Cat 3 pack. The official results had me listed 57th which isn’t a compelling case for an upgrade, but it was a beautiful thing being able to kick “Self-Doubt” in the arse at one of the most competitive races this year. We averaged 27mph over the 50min race. Oh, remember that killer effort at the 10min mark? Well, I pegged 1,000W during that stretch- exactly the power level that tanked my race at both Schlitz and Evanston. Special thanks for Johnny Dunat and Maria for cheering me along throughout the race.

Let’s go through that checklist one more time…

Helmet? Check.
Shoes? Check.
Number pinned? Check.
Main Street Bicycles socks on? Check.
Legs here for the race? Hell Yea’!!! It’s about freaking time!!!

Put Me Out of My Misery

That Cat 3 noose around my neck seems to be getting tighter and tighter. I actually started to think that I needed to make some symbolic change, so I ditched the PowerTap for this race and lined up with no computer, heart rate monitor, or any other monitoring device. My training has been according to plan along the Peak phase, so I decided that I needed to psych up the mind by returning to a time when I wasn’t so driven by numbers and data. Somehow that simple, yet symbolic change was supposed to deliver different results during the downtown Evanston crit. So, there I am rolling up to the start line of the Evanston with my Mavic Ksyrium SL’s sans computer.

The encouraging prelude to this race was that I felt good during the warm-up and believed that this was the race that was going to mark the turning point in my season. Ironically, I saw a poster at the LA Fitness that read something like “Run Your Self-Doubt Into The Ground.” I didn’t think much about the poster until I realized that I had rolled a full block thinking about that message. Self-doubt is a vicious thing in the world of competitive cycling because at some point in the race, the hammer drops and the flood gates of Lake Lactic Acid release their fury on every muscle strand in your body. If your hope of a solid result is depending on the SS Self-Doubt, then you better believe that your chances are going to sink like the Titanic.

Well, cue that cheesy soundtrack to the movie Titanic ‘cause I did not feel comfortable at all once the racing got underway. I constantly felt as if I was hammering to keep from being unhitched from the pack. And there I go off the back yet again about 10 laps into the race. The power accelerations out of the BK stacker corner continued through half of the final straightaway and I was surprised by how much the legs were getting more and more drained each time I had to accelerate out of that turn. I definitely didn’t feel like the King of the World on that race.

Amazing how I completely did not expect to unravel like I did during this race, especially after pulling myself out of an abysmal Schlitz Crit yesterday. I am baffled on how the legs have completely disappeared at this point in the season. There are various things that have likely contributed to that since I have a lot of “stuff” going on at work and on the family front. You would think that the Cycling Gods would have some amount of pity on me, but alas it’s not to be.

I’m started to weigh my options for the rest of the season. Racing has been one hell of a downer since Winfield, so I’m leaning on setting aside the racing game if I don’t collect some sort of result by Downers Grove. I’m not talking about a solo ride off the front with some killer post up as I cross the line. I’m just looking for some validation that I can compete with this crew. Only time will tell…

I did enjoy rolling around the town where I lived for 2 years during grad school. A brat at Buffalo Joe’s proved to be a worthy distraction from the disappointing result at Evanston. I suppose the consolation prize was that I finished the race and didn’t get caught up in any of the pile-ups around the infamous BK Stacker. Whoop-de-do…

My Open Letter to Cat 3 Racers

Fellas, what ever happened to the subtlety of a casual pace? Where is the courtesy “gentleman’s lap”? Why not take our time and enjoy the view? Look at the riders on the final stage of the Tour de France. Don’t they look like they are enjoying themselves along the way as they sip their champagne? Why is it that we have to ride all-out right from the gun? Wouldn’t you rather look like those riders on the final stage of the TdF than those poor souls killing themselves on some Hors Catégorie climb? I say let’s slow down a bit and at least enjoy the moment. Why not give all riders the chance to savor the thrill of racing with a group- it’s the least we could do for anyone willing to fork over upwards of $30 per race.

Let’s take this past Schlitz Park Crit as an example. The race was set for 35 miles- no time limit, no 45min + 3 laps. We had a perfectly good closed course available to us for as long as we wanted. Let’s say that we had ridden the 35 miles at 20mph. Well, that would have meant that Cat 3’s would have owned the course for a full hour and 24 minutes. Instead, you all decided to power up that hill time and time again essentially handing over additional time that we could have had with the closed course. It’s almost like buying 2 hours of parking on a parking meter then pulling out of the spot after 15min are up. No way, fellas. We paid for up to a full hour and 24 minutes and we should have asserted our rights for the full duration. Hell, we should have simply rolled around at 17.5mph and commandeered the course for a full 2 hours. Now that would have delivered our money’s worth, but instead we powered up the hill and freely gave up our access to the closed course prematurely.

Let me guess. You think that I am one of those riders that lingered mid pack and slowly slid backwards in the field until I popped powering up the hill for the nth time at a frantic pace. Uhh, yeah that was me. You probably also think that I was one of those riders that got lapped numerous times trying in vain to stay with the tail end of the field as it blew by. Nope, that was not me. I decided to pull out of the race and conserve the legs for tomorrow’s Evanston Crit. Don’t you worry Cat 3 field because I’m going to keep training and working to stay right there with you as you remain committed to waiving your rights to all you deserve for the $30 entry fee.

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!!!