Ride Report: 2013 BuDu Ravensdale RR

I’m learning.

I think that might officially make me a better bike racer than Nacer Bouhanni.

Specifically, I learned two lessons at the 2013 BuDu Racing Ravensdale Road Race:

1) It is exponentially easier to stay attached to a bike race when you’re in the front half of the group.
2) There’s always a reason to finish.

So This Is What The Front Looks Like…

The route is a 9 mile tri-corner, climb/descent loop, with roughly 80m elevation change per lap for 4 laps. It’s a lumpy course, in the most Sherwin-esque way possible. The climb isn’t steep, roughly 2-4% at max, but there’s also not a flat section on the day.

I came into it prepared to dry-heave.

I wasn’t going to get dropped short of having to pull over and empty the contents of my stomach. I was prepared to hurt, prepared to shatter myself just to stay within sight of the race.

It was with that mindset that I took the start line on the left side, ready to stick to the inside of the left hand rollout. I got up on the pedals, got a good start, and found myself within the top 15 positions in the neutralized group.

Being up front, seemingly, is living a life of luxury. In a 35-50 rider race, the back-end is constantly braking and accelerating due to the compression of trying to fit in one lane + variable size/condition shoulder of public roads. The front, by comparison, is steady. Just keep an eye on the wheel in front, and beside, and find the tempo.

Of course, this life of luxury isn’t cheap, as my heart rate climbed into the 190s once we turned to the shorter, relatively steeper pitches on the climb.

As we passed the start/finish line, placed halfway up, the group finally came to the conclusion that we weren’t neutralized anymore and the breakaway riders took off. Knowing what I know now, I should have buried myself to try to join them. They didn’t get far up the road before the final, uphill, right turn, but had I been there, it would have saved me from getting dropped.

Maybe that’s a third lesson: Always go with the break.

Another Individual Effort

I entered the uphill right corner on the left, outside half, of the group.

I exited the uphill right corner off the back with 2 other guys.

Bike racing, like life, is what happens when you’re not paying attention. In this case, that’s when you don’t get out of the saddle and stomp on it around the outside of a corner that everyone else is taking tight and fast.

At least this time I can chalk it up to a “tactical error” and not being “woefully under-conditioned.”

We chased hard as the course tilted downward. The fastest speed I recorded for the day was in the next 1km as I and 2 others tried in vain to catch the back of the group. Coincidentally, it was also when 3 dogs bolted out from an un-gated driveway and took offense to us being near their property.

I took one last hard pull, saw the race getting away, felt the legs starting to go, and slipped back.

I wasn’t ready to vomit, but I also didn’t have anything else to give. Even my two partners slowly went up the road, then broke apart near the middle of lap 2.

The Grupetto

Doesn’t exist.

Once you’ve fallen off the back, everyone just rides their own tempo. I chalk it up to the generally impersonal nature of people here, of which bike riders are specifically bad. If we aren’t wearing the same jersey, its rare that we’ll even say one word to each other.

In this case, the grupetto was 6 of us, within eyesight of each other for the first 2.5 laps, playing a game of chicken as to who would be the last person to DNF.

Starting lap 4, I had no idea if I was that guy or not. As I crossed the line, I was just glad I wasn’t going to get lapped. I hadn’t seen anyone at all on lap 3. I was also starting to wonder why I wasn’t already back having a burger and a beer somewhere.

By that point, only 9mi left, there’s no point in stopping. Especially when the entire back half of the course is downhill. At least that was the rationale which finally shut up my urge to DNF. I may or may not have invoked Jens-isms to an attempt to keep my legs moving.

It holds true, even when the Cat 1/2/3 Women’s Race passes you (next race, 3min behind our start), and the ref reprimands you for “maybe” trying to get a little draft from their follow car. I plead effort-based temporary ignorance to that.

Once I made it to the final corner, I and my two cramping calves were just ready to do the last half-climb and call it a day.

Always Ride Through The Line

I hadn’t seen anyone for a lap and a half.

Apparently, I should have turned around sooner.

Somehow, I wasn’t DFL, which I found out as I was passed at 1.5km to go. I still have no idea how, or where, he came from, but one of my fellow ass-draggers rolled around me coming up the hill.

I don’t really know what the etiquette would be in higher categories, but I felt I had worked too hard, alone, to just let him roll by.

I stuck to his wheel up the last pitch, and waited for the 200m sign. At roughly 300m to go, I came around and made the effort to just ride him off my wheel. It wasn’t a sprint, nor even a sprunt, just a flailing attempt to not lose.

I don’t know if it was that sheer awesome display of defiance, or if he just didn’t care, but it stuck.

Second race: first non-DFL. It’s not much, but it is something.

I rode back in with the DFL from the Women’s 1/2/3 and we shared muscle cramping stories.

Lesson 4: That’s racing.

der Dunkelblitzenpanzerfunf

I felt like I needed another bike.

There was an entire 4-5′ section of my computer-room-bike-garage-home-office-overflow-storage wall that wasn’t already adorned with paraphernalia from one of those necessary purposes. It was a perfect hole for a third bike to lean against.

Filling that hole was my working justification for getting a new toy. Some mid-life-crisians might have tried to fit a Ferrari there, a Harley, or a new blonde, but none of those are really my particular brand of waning virility.

I needed something darker. More aggressive. Something…Taiwanese.

Enter der Dunkelblitzenpanzerfunf, because any time you need an outlandish name for an outlandish item, there’s compound German nouns. At first, I was going to try to piece together some sort of nonsensical Chinese characters, but I figure this bike deserves better than being reduced to a tramp stamp.

Since this was a once-in-a-delusional-moment-of-weakness purchase, I went ahead and gave it some love courtesy of VISA (mostly), Williams Cycling, Rotor and Speedplay. One good aero fitting later, and the Dark Lightning Tank 5 (or Dark Lightning Panther for WW2 buffs) was christened.

It’s done a noble job filling the hole.

Much like its owner, the P5 is a big, stubborn bike. It goes where it wants, with my suggestions being just that. It wants to go straight, and fast. It wants to make the rear disk roar over every imperfection in the asphalt. I don’t know if it will ever see the little ring outside of tuning and cleaning the chain.

In many ways, this bike is me, in carbon.

I’m not going to shamelessly plug the Cervelo P5, nor am I going to give it a review, because that’s not really what I do and I’m not a time-tested expert in bike technology. Also, the specs and testing are nicely outlined in this whitepaper, which is a pretty cool read for someone who likes numbers.

But what I will say is that instantly I noticed a different look from fellow roadies when I donned the pointy golf ball, and climbed atop something that looks to have been ordered from the Tron design catalog.

It’s a look of respect. A look of intimidation. A look that says, “Shouldn’t you be going faster than that?”

And therein lies the rub.

I’ve still gotta ride it. It’s not a Ferrari or a Harley. It’s still just a bike, and therefore limited by my engine, not me by it. In filling one hole, I’ve created another one. One more reason to obsess over trying to get better, ride harder, and faster. One more saddle to break in.

But there’s the crazy part.

It all combines to make one twisted and awesome experience. I’ve loved every minute I’ve ridden the P5. I loved swapping out the brake pads to fit the carbon tubulars (although hiding them under the rear frame presents some practical challenges). I loved reading the Magura RT6 hydraulic brake manual. I love when the rear disk goes silent, and I realize I’m not pushing it hard enough.

I just love this bike.

That Didn’t Take As Long As I Thought…

So I started this blog with what I thought was a reasonable long-term goal of bagging a Strava KoM.

Somehow, through the mighty powers of grit, determination, and a bloody sock, I’ve done it. I think the sock worked like a NISMO windshield sticker, adding at least 5hp, if not more.

Its also cool because this is a segment I created, which is a Strava mini-game that satisfies the same sorts of cartographical impulses that led me to keep a map on my wall with pins in it, toy around with travel photography, and play Etrian Odyssey for a few hundred hours.

One might note that my KoM was aided by having had only 23 people previously ride this hill, but let’s ignore that for now.

The Nameless Suburbanite Sprint

300m long and 40m up, the unnamed side road starts nicely at a stop light, and ends in a residential cul de sac. Its the perfect uphill sprint finish for a guy like Sagan, although since the steepest section is the last 50m, there wouldn’t really be a place to do the chicken dance.

Its also nicely separated into 3 stretches of increasing grade, which I foolishly thought I could just power up at full gas the first handful of times I tried. Then I remembered that even in an EPO-fuelled hellrage, not even the best sprinters can go uphill full out for 300m without cracking.

The first section, of roughly 100-150m is the lightest grade. Its more or less inevitable that the light will be red, so it provides a nice ramp after clipping back in (feel free to judge, track-standers) and crossing the main road. Set a target speed for the climb, find a gear, set a rhythm, and don’t blow up.

With a clunk, the fresh asphalt drops away onto the shelf of old, rough asphalt for section two, with a corresponding ratchet upwards in grade. Its not drastic, aside from the 2″ shelf, but this is where the real kick has to occur. Staying in gear, this is where I burned all my matches. Just kick as hard, and as long, as possible.

The last 50-75m is a wall. The entire segment registers as being 11% average on Strava. The first pitch can’t be more than 2-4%, which would make this well above 11% to even out. I just flipped over to the 39 ring and tried to turn it over as fast as possible. I wasn’t even standing anymore, just trying to grit it out.

More often than not, in an exasperated, slumped haze, I’ve been greeted by a pair of deer grazing in the leveled-but-undeveloped housing plot right at the top. I didn’t quite leave myself as empty this time, owing to the conservation of effort on the first pitch, but it was still a nice sight yet again.

The Thrill of Victory

Eventually, someone is going to come along and obliterate this sprint. Who knows, on the right day, it might even be me. For now though, I’m the King of the Mountain, even if its the type of “mountain” more suited to a green jersey than polka dots.

But maybe that is what I really am. Everyone has to have a niche, and maybe I’ve got a kick for this type of finish.

Every so often, I feel like I know what I’m doing on a bike, and that I’m not just the guy who rides 50km out of 60 soloing off the back of a road race. This is one of those times that has me wondering if maybe I’d actually be competitive on an uphill sprint finale.

Now to just figure out how to get myself in the position to test that theory…

Beware of the Dog

I am a miserable and insufferable bastard.

I haven’t just come to this conclusion lightly, but rather through reflection on a career full of corporate-mandated team building exercises and personality tests.

Also, I’m a Gemini, so I’m actually two insufferable bastards, two MBTI profiles, or, in the words of Vitaly and Yuri Orlov: two dogs and two vestigial reptile brains fighting to overwhelm my more refined and civilized tendencies.

Two dogs that see way too much meaning in Lord of War.

No, it’s to scare me – remind me to beware the dog in me. The dog who wants to fuck everything that moves, wants to fight and kill weaker dogs.

“The dog that wants to drop out of another stage race and drunkenly stumble around a Munich hotel.” OK, so that’s not me, but it seemed somewhat relevant.

One of my dogs likes to be by itself. Always preparing, alone, inside its own head, thinking, theorizing. It likes pushing for extra watts, analyzing bike computer data, testing new seat positions. It likes anything and everything about trying to be the best dog that mathematics and science can create. It likes to read about cycling and personal training, and study what works and what doesn’t. It likes to sit at the computer, pouring over spreadsheet data, reading and comparing. It is the spherical dog of uniform density.

Its the dog that rationalizes why one would buy kit that makes them look like they are cosplaying a Goomba from Super Mario Bros.

It is the dog that keeps refining this post, and won’t ever just let it be. It does a lot of wallowing, and probably sighs too much. Its a little crestfallen that we didn’t follow through on the idea to visit Paris-Roubaix this year.

All it wants to do is pick apart the day, and put the pieces back together its way.

Which brings us to…

You underestimate yourself Aleksei. You’re the best. You’re the shit Aleksei, you’re the shit! You’re the shit! You’re the shit!

The other dog, the loud and barky one, is pretty simple.

Its the dog that likes to get loud and rowdy at hockey games. It watches wrestling un-ironically. It likes writing this blog, but hates always writing about losing. It wants to win, and to command attention. It wants to be Peter Sagan, Cippo, Steve Austin or Patrick Roy. Popping wheelies over the line after crushing a breakaway or sprint. Getting in people’s faces and demanding respect.

It drops the bass. Its a predator, rapture, it is killin’ it.

It has taken awhile to find the right times to let that one off the leash.

You know who’s going to inherit the Earth? Arms dealers. Because everyone else is too busy killing each other. That’s the secret to survival. Never go to war. Especially with yourself.

The same could be said of bike shop owners, actually…

But getting back to the miserable, insufferable bastard thing.

I don’t think I ever had an option to not go to war with myself. My inner monologue was written by Aeschylus after a weekend at Michael Vick’s house.

These aren’t the Wondertwins, or even Yin and Yang. They don’t want to co-exist, they want control. They recognize each other’s weaknesses, and pick at them, always trying to exploit those moments for their advantage.

Ultimately, that’s why I ride. Its not to win. Its not to KOM a climb on Strava. Its the peanut butter Kong I throw out when I need an hour or two of quiet from my dogs.

Its the one thing they both can agree on, if only temporarily.

Ride Report: 2013 Independence Valley Road Race

Some days your best just isn’t good enough.

Some days it is only good enough for dead last.

Some days, still, it is only good enough to be the slowest guy in the entire race, across all divisions, men and women.

IVRR 2013 was one of those days.

I went into the race with the best of intentions, and legs that felt pretty damn good. Indeed, it was actually my best effort of the year if you analyze the data. Its probably fitting, then, that my first officially sanctioned road result fell just on the good side of “completely laughable.” There’s literally nowhere to go but up from here.

I knew I was going to get shelled out the back, the only question was when. Last time I tried this race, in my first ever attempt at cat5 glory, it happened as soon as the flag dropped at the end of the neutral start.

This time, I made it ~2km further, almost to the base of the first climb up Michigan Hill.

There really is no way of describing the forward suck of a race when the flag drops. The instant acceleration from 18 to 25mph, and the vacuum that is created. There’s also no describing that feeling when you realize you’ve lost the slipstream and the race is going away from you. The instant deceleration when you lose the shelter and momentum of the group, face left fully in the wind.

I momentarily thought it would be OK, and that I could catch back on with a good effort up the mile-long climb. I did, momentarily, see the follow car coming back right near the top. I could see the actual grupetto starting to form, and could feel them coming back.

Then they went over the top, out of sight, never to be seen again.

Apparently, they went on to cause quite a problem when they passed the cat4s who started 5min ahead of us. Leading to a race neutralization, and the predictable kerfluffle.

I was all the way back making friends with the livestock by then. The cows and I came to instant understanding, both of us lazily spending the day basking in the sun. The newborn lambs and llamas looking on in bewilderment as I sweated my way along the two lap circuit for 2 hours. The two bald eagles circling the finish may have been enjoying their view of the race, or may have been waiting for me to stop at the finish so they could pick up my carcass from the road. I’m just glad there weren’t any mountain lions looking to pick off the weakest of the group…

Rural Washington is nothing if not spectacular on a sunny spring day, and for that I can say that I got my money’s worth enjoying it.

Twice over Michigan Hill, twice over Manners Road Hill, headwind finish, and it was over. Somewhat of a blur, but a day I’ll always own as my first result.

Nowhere to go but up.

Ride Report: 2013 Frostbite Time Trial

While most of the cycling world was focused on Omloop Het Nieuwsblad, I was out humping around the inaugural race of the 2013 PNW cycling season: The Footworks Cycles Frostbite Time Trial. Its only slightly less known, maybe a little less classic, and eminently more pronouncable than that Belgian race.

In an effort to defend my throne as “Not-the-Worst-Time-Trialist-in-WA”, I clipped on the aero bars and headed to Carnation for 20km of unpredictable Seattle-area February weather. Amazingly, the rain and wind never materialized, leaving only a super-fast, mild temperature, dry road blast through many of the same farm roads used in last year’s Tour de Peaks . Luckily, without the aromatic wall of sun-baked cow shit around every corner.

Jumping ahead a little bit, I managed to retain my title and it didn’t even come down to the 19 people who DNS/DNF’d.

A Few of My Unfavoritest Things

It may, however, have possibly involved the handful of people in my division that couldn’t seem to make it to the tent in time for their start. Seemingly, what should have been the simplest part of the day was turned into a carbon-spandex maelstrom of epic proportions. The police holding traffic were powerless to stop the seemingly endless tide of riders coming in 3-5min late and trying to start off-timer.

If I was already spending 10k on aero kit, I’d probably go ahead and buy a functioning watch to go with it, or watch the giant digital clock between the start tent and the parking lot, or listen for the starter calling everyone’s sequential numbers on the bullhorn.

Or…maybe I wouldn’t. I mean, even with that 3-5min cushion, I still wasn’t competitive on the day, but I’m sure someone benefited from it.

Of course, that buffer seems less important when a rider can just jump in the paceline that came screaming around me like it had a JATO strapped on after making the turn at 10km. Welcome to the Wild Wild West of Cat4/5 Individual Time Trials.

Still, I Didn’t Ride Baaa aaa aaa aaadly

Riding in rural Washington, while apparently carrying a low chance of running into a meth lab, usually results in quite a number of jackasses, spitters, and other assorted hecklers lining the course.

For this ride, the peanut gallery spared us from the jackasses, but did include two cows, three llamas, and a small herd of goats.

Its a weird kind of zen. Can never tell if they are trying to comprehend what I am, and what I’m doing, or if my bike just looks delicious.

And what did we learn?

Bike racing is a gateway drug to more bike racing. It doesn’t matter how far people bend the rules, how far from competitive the result, its something that is either in your veins or it isn’t.

Much like a bag of Lays (or in my case, fucking Girl Scout cookies), you can’t just have one and then leave it alone. I didn’t even intend to race this year, then I bought my license. Then I decided to just do a tuneup at Frostbite. Now I’m scheduled in for 5 more races in 2013.

It doesn’t even matter how badly I flail around pretending to be a racer, because I’m only really there to race myself.

Against the Clock

By virtue of the fact that I’ve never actually finished a sanctioned road race, I would refer to myself as a time trial specialist.

I train alone, I live inside my own head when I ride, I spend an inordinate amount of time being dropped and having to catch up to group rides, and I’m that asshole who gets a little skitchy going downhill in the pack (usually making friends with the center line in the process). My road race style is a little like David Moncoutié, if he had never been in a breakaway.

Imagine my surprise to also find out that I’m not the worst USAC-ranked Time Trialist in the country, nor even the state. Somehow I’ve acheived all of this without a pointy helmet or disc wheels. I only purchased my clip-on bars, aka ‘The Couch’, as a way to take pressure off my wrists/hips on centuries. I don’t even have them tuned to a mathematically-precise configuration tested for hours in the wind tunnel. I think I also may have had my numbers loosely pinned.

All of this flies in the face of TT Tactics 103. Which is an eerily timed and appropriate conversation as I was finishing this post.

Maybe I can chalk it all up to having too much illegal tilt on my saddle, coupled with the reduced drag from my socks being outside regulation length and the non-structural aero fairing provided by my facial hair. That’s just the UCI infractions I’m flaunting, not even going to start a tally on breaking The Rules in the last two-and-a-half paragraphs.

But really, for someone like me at the ass-end of the talent pool, teetering between racer and rec cyclist, the only four rules that really matter in a TT are: Get on bike, Ride until heart explodes, Record time, Do better next year.