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"To
pose or not to pose, --that is the question. Hillsboro Roubaix 88 degrees and gusty The toughest road race in the early season here in the tranquil Midwest. 86 miles of narrow back roads that would make the stoutest of Belgians feel right at home. Except for the deep piles of gravel dropped here and there the roads show no evidence of visits from a County maintenance crew in years. Over the course of the day we can expect 24 short steep climbs and a mile of brick pavement on each of 4 trips through Hillsboro. Some thought was put into opting for the Master's 35+ race. In each of the two previous years Team Turin entered the Pro 1,2 race. Last year, I was able to finish 10th in this brutal shell fest. The year before, I was popped like a fat tick before the end of lap 1. The thought of riding 3 laps with the masters however did not appeal. Being a proper bike racer, I am constantly able to persuade myself that I am years younger than I actually am. Besides which, aside from the fact that Masters races (outside of California) are not real races and do not merit a write up, the composition of jerseys in the parking lot indicated the masters field would be made up at minimum of 66% sMACKs as 30 or so were congregated around the Head sMACK's new Nissan Murano. A vehicle, which I am informed, is fully equipped with every available option and only gets 12 miles per gallon but can go 130 mph on the highway. I did not notice if the Murano had spinny rims as it was sitting still but I believe spinny rims would fall under the canopy of "every available option". The composition of the P, 1,2 field was no less stacked as I saw for the first time this season the Seafood Shoppe Hushpuppy team in blazing yellow and blue glory with 15 young men clustered in a group discussing pre race strategy. This team according to a press release recently posted possesses "world class athletes" who can make their bikes achieve speeds "that recreational cyclists only dream of." That is unless the recreational cyclists live near the Blue Ridge Parkway or any sizable hill on which they can coast down at 40 mph, but I digress. Tom Schuler's new project, the Endeavor Elite team was well represented. I'm sure they can make their bikes move at speeds that impress bike clubbers, but I have not read whether Endeavor is in possession of any world-class athletes. Many, many other full time bike racers were present as well, the only one of which making a living and supporting a family being Robbie Ventura from the USPS team. Despite facing close to four hours of racing in unseasonable heat and gusty cross winds, a group of 3 riders were fixing to R-U-N-N-O-F-T not one mile into the race. Allowing the eager riders some room to roam, I was able to catch up on the off-season news. Butt Head is now married and owns a house. Crazy Tracy in engaged and getting married in the fall and the undergraduate women at the University of Missouri and Smith College are throwing themselves out of dormitory windows in grief. St. Louis does produce weather that forces riders indoors in the winter. 5 riders had flat tires in the first 20 minutes of racing and at least two riders ended up in roadside ditches. There could have been more, I couldn't see through the clouds of dust. The pre race strategy of the Hushpuppies was now unfolding. Lesser riders were being sacrificed for the good of the team, attacking in two's and threes while the remaining dozen or so would fan across the 6 foot wide strip of broken asphalt and hit the brakes. It was an astonishing show of power and cunning. With the pace of the race alternating between pedestrian and conversational and yellow jerseys attacking the front of the 100 plus rider field, the axiom that cycling is stoopid sport was once again being proven. After a half hour of this lunacy, 5 riders gained a minute while the field was content to leisurely allow the Hushpuppies and Endeavor riders to marshal the front at speeds upwards of 16 miles per hour. Teams not represented in the break were unwilling organize a rotating pace line to keep the race moving. Seems that riders are unwilling to burn their matches in a team effort but will attack off the front to bridge a gap solo. Which begs, for what conceivable reason do bike racers don identical jerseys other than to avoid a $5 unattached fee? Perhaps to quench the human need to feel a sense of belonging? The lovely Kathy equates this type of bike racing to playing baseball but never taking a swing. Why show up to play? I digress further. "Whether
'tis nobler in the mind to suffer Frustrated beyond rational thought, I determined that a glory pull was in order. I moved up from mid pack through the sea of yellow and blue. It only took 3 miles but at age 41, the old man pulled the filed to within 10 seconds. At this point I was fully expecting a passel of opportunistic riders to jump out of the mini van sized wake created by my enormous ass and fly across to the break. If this played out, I'd jump to a wheel and enjoy the fruits of my labor. It never happened. I wonder" why?" Looking back I see a single file line buffeted by cross winds, echeloned out with 1/3 of the field popped off the back. It was a beautiful sight. At no time did anyone from a team not represented in the break offer to take a turn. However, at one point an Endeavor rider did move in front of me and slow down. Midway
through lap two, Robbie Ventura made his way back to where I was
sitting. Looking up the road I saw what Robbie saw. Predictably two riders were limping backwards toward the peloton. Robbie moved quickly toward the front. I followed on his wheel through the corner and it happened. Riding over a chunk of loose asphalt, my chain dropped off the inside. I lost ground. I shifted the chain back on and took off toward the front. Next pothole, it happened again. This time the chain came completely off the inside and wrapped around my pedal. Quick, think…. reverse pedal, reach down, dodge the mule in the middle of the road, and un hook the chain from the crank arm. All good with the group 15 seconds up the road and hauling ass to catch the disintegrating break for the first time in the race. I chase back on through the clouds of dust and gravel. Blinded by the sweat dried on the inside of my Rx Oakley gigs it's difficult to see but I am able to attach to a wheel and recover. This scenario repeats itself until we hit the 4 miles of smooth pavement. Back on smooth roads I am assured that the bike will stay together at least until we hit the brick pavement downhill at "speeds recreational cyclist can only dream of." "Whether
'tis nobler in the mind Back in town on the brick streets it all starts over again. I won't belabor the point. I abandoned the race, a victim of my own poor bicycle maintenance habits. I can only imagine the carnage that took place over the last two laps. Small clusters of riders trudged uphill through the feed zone. The leading break of 6 riders, with an order of 3 Hushpuppies came through. A minute later Robbie with a Hushpuppy stuck to his wheel and Crazy Tracy looking for neutral water. 15 minutes later I saw TubeSox who had worked so diligently with me as I chased back on to the group after dropping my chain. TubeSox the Strongman of Iowa going up the feed zone hill at 5 miles per, head down and a string of snot from his nose to his top tube. It was an ugly sight. Another rider literally fell off his bike and sat in the middle of the road with cramps. The feed zone was filling with riders who had earlier abandoned the race. An order of 8 fried Hushpuppies was seen in the parking lot. 22 riders had recorded finishes. Bryan Smyth from Endeavor soloed home to win by 30 seconds. It was a most excellent ride. In the Masters Race, Lenny "Kravitz" Clapp from the Proctor team in Peoria managed to overcome an entire field of sMACK's and win. Kudos. I changed my chain on Sunday and did yard work.
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