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What I Learned In The Palmetto State "I really learned a lot". This is a phrase used in nearly every cycling diarist's entries. The diarist, generally either a Euro newbie over the pond for the first time or a Continental Dreamer uses the phrase in wide-eyed wonder without ever pointing out what it is that has been learned. It is assumed the lessons learned involve bike racing tactics or maybe good espresso. YAWN. Seldom are the valuable lessons about a new culture, a bigger worldview, a new way of looking at a situation based on a conversation with a person who grew up in a different part of the world. More likely the lessons are embarrassingly simple, common knowledge to most. Thus "I really learned a lot" and "I learned so much from bike racing" are tossed out and the readers are left hanging to draw their own conclusions as to the wisdom gleaned racing a bike. My conclusions generally lean toward skeptical, like "I learned how to fit five into a single motel room." Or, "I learned that you can save money buying motor oil at Wal Mart rather than at gas stations if you need to add a quart to your beater car every 500 miles while crisscrossing the country in search of a cash winning finish". Shortly after the first of the year, Herr Hausfrau sent an e-mail to the Delta team with a web link to a race in South Carolina the weekend of April Fools Day. Initially I considered it a clever early April Fools Day joke. However, the talk of making the trip for the race persisted and the weather in Illinois turned from cold to bleak. In early March I decided that it would be a far better thing to drive 11 hours to do a stage race that included "street sprints" as it's opening stage than to suffer the barren, leafless landscape of East Central Illinois for another weekend. I sent in my registration. It cost $75. I was on the hook. The Mole and Herr Hausfrau traveled south with their families. They were using their children's spring break as an excuse to travel to a far-flung bike race. I on the other hand didn't have any valid reason for making such a long trip. "Where is this bike race you're doing?" Lovely Kathy inquired as she did a search on mapquest.com. "You know that it's over 700 miles." It was a statement, not a question. The inference being that I am quite insane.
I've decided I'll share what I learned on my bike-racing journey. The stretch of I-64 between Louisville and Lexington KY is one of the most beautiful stretches of Interstate Highway in the country. White fences mark the property lines through the rolling hills and horse breeding farms. The scenery between Knoxville, TN and Ashville, NC on I-40 is breathtaking. It runs through the Cherokee National Forest. Sheer granite walls, limestone bluffs and tree covered mountains as far as the eye can see. Whitewater Rivers run along the highway. I-77 through Southwestern Virginia to Charleston, West Virginia is also a beautiful drive. It's a winding 6-lane highway through the Blue Ridge Mountains. It's well worth the $1.25 West Virginia charges you every 40miles for the use of their roads. I could live in places like this. Sure, the Southeastern mountain region has its share of inbred possum eaters, but I don't count them as any more sinister or dangerous than NASCAR fans or the type of happy simpletons who see no contradiction in warmongers claiming to be Born Again Christians and in fact calling them "moral" men. For my money, a moral man wouldn't be caught within a thousand miles of politics, but that's just me. Truth be told, NASCAR fans and simpletons are everywhere. Even in California and Oregon, just not with such abundance, unless we're talking about Orange County or the high desert. I learned that Celebrity Skin by Hole and By The Way by the Red Hot Chili Peppers are two of the greatest albums ever produced. I learned that the new Beck CD is a return to his musical roots and a worth the price. On Friday April 1st, I arrived in Rock Hill, SC. Winthrop University is there. Back in the Day, I caught baseballs from a couple of guys who pitched for the Eagles in their college days. Winthrop U is a picturesque redbrick and white steeple small college. The street sprints were held in nearby York. I am not a sprinter. Last summer I did a 51:18 40k time trial. I can go fast, it just takes me about 20k to get up to speed. A 500-meter sprint is silly, unless it's a donut prime. In my heat there were 8 men. Our bikes were held and we had a standing start, with the finish line straight down Main St in York. It was 8:35pm and it was dark. I was so scared of being completely embarrassed, finishing minutes back that I determined to get off to a fast start. I did. In fact, I led through the first 300 meters. Then it happened. My body thought it was doing a time trial and settled down from the 35 mph start to about 28 mph readying itself for the next 39.75 kilometers and 5 guys passed me in the last 200 meters. Everyone on the team earned omnium points except me. I am duly embarrassed. On Saturday it was agreed that we should ride aggressively and get at least two of our 4 riders into a break. The line up was Hausfrau - He is his children's Father. The Mole - Races best when his alter ego Angry Johnnie pre registers for him. The Savage - Hoosier transplant to SC. Druber - But for an affinity for pastries and bourbon, he might have been good. The field numbered 80 with the strong Cane Creek /Smith Barney teams and 2003 USCF 40-44 road champ Radisa (don't call me Stanley) Cubric. We were set on a .9-mile track around a lake at Winthrop U with one small riser. The wind was gusting up to 30 mph across the course. A rider from the Smith Barney team jumped from the gun. Angry Johnnie decided to chase him down and kept the escapee at bay. At the end of lap 1 Druber pulled around, caught the rabbit at the top of the small hill and kept the pressure on. At the start of lap two, Druber put the race in the right gutter and the field began to splinter. Up over the hill on lap two, Druber looked back and saw a gap forming. At the top of the hill Der Hausfrau pulled around Druber. Two Deltas up the road. This would create some action. A Smith Barney rider bridged and eventually a group of 9 formed. Two laps later Hausfrau exploded off my lead out, winning a $20 prime by several lengths. When the group pulled back even with Der Frau, we had a 10 second gap. It went to 40 as another Smith Barney rider joined and we traded pulls for 2 laps. Break secure, field controlled, we worked it and came up to the back of the field with 6 to go. Consensus was not to lap. The roads were narrow and it would have been a mess.
It was a great day except that while we were napping, the Smith Barney boys stole our Omnium. Angry Johnnie drank two Venti Starbucks before the race and blazed off within a half mile of the start, using energy that would have been much better spent later. Druber was forced to patrol the front much sooner than he likes and spent the first 40 miles chasing attackers. Der Hausfrau was presumably keeping his eyes on Mr.'s Atkins and Creed from the enemy. Shortly after the feed zone at the end of lap 1, those sneaky bastards escaped the pel while Druber was mid pack suffering, Angry Johnnie was down off the caffeine buzz and Der Hausfrau trying to obey the centerline rule was boxed in on both sides. Now, I'd like to suggest that if the Blue Coats announce a centerline rule, they enforce it. Anyone crossing the centerline for whatever reason is immediately pulled from the race, no questions asked. This is rarely done. The Blue Coats more appropriately should say, "Gentlemen, we suggest that if you are hit by a car while on the left side of the yellow line, we are not liable. You have signed a hold harmless agreement. We suggest you race to the right of the yellow line, however if the entire group goes over to the left side of the road, you do so at your own risk and we'll honk horns at you and give you repeated warnings but we won't actually penalize anyone." What I learned is that the centerline rule is like the 65 mph speed limit it Kentucky. It's a joke. Back to the story: Druber: "Hausfrau, is everyone we care about still in the grupetto, or do we need to start chasing the group 45 seconds up the road?" Hausfrau: "There are guys up the road? When did that happen?" After a quick assessment of the situation Hausfrau offers "Uh-Oh. I don't see our guys." Druber: "Dammit, this is going to be a long 36 miles…" By the time we got through to the front the gap had ballooned to 1:30. We buried ourselves to keep the gap from getting any bigger. 5 miles later, with the gap at 1:45, Der Hausfrau suggested we bag the chase effort. Too frustrated to stop, I soldiered on. Eventually The Mole made his way up and took a couple of very strong much needed pulls and then his front wheel broke. Der Hausfrau and I continued with absolutely no help from anyone else in the field. They were content to sit on our efforts, and even had the audacity to launch periodic attacks. Shit Heads… The Smith Barney guys did a great job of disrupting our rhythm except for the one guy who felt the need to sit on as we pulled the flats and then sprint up the hills only to sit up at the top. Thanks to his help in speeding the group up the hills, we got the gap back down to 1:10. Der Hausfrau got into a secondary break with 8 other guys making 15 up the road. I sat up and just wanted to finish the last 6 miles and go home. This we did. With a half mile to go I went to the front of my little group of 20 guys and rode a hard tempo in to the finishing stretch. The race was over, the money and points were all up the road. I was thinking about the 11-hour drive home and hoping Der Hausfrau had won the sprint out of his group. Suddenly with 200 meters to go I was swarmed on all sides by Dipshit Peckerheads who for 77 miles sat in the pack and didn't stick their noses into the wind to help pull back the break. The sophomoric urge to finish the race in a blaze of glory and have a story to impress their wives or girlfriends with in a pathetic effort to get laid overcame the lickspittles. Dangerous stuff happens in such moments. Scapulas get broken. Collarbones disintegrate. Skin is lost. At 150 meters, a Dipshit hack from the D'Oro Pasta team hooked my left handlebar as he tried to shoot a 42 cm gap with his 44cm bars. My front wheel was jerked into The Savage's rear wheel and our skewers jointly sheared out a fair portion of our respective spokes. Neither of us went down thankfully. As I related the story to The Lovely Kathy on the way home, her response was "F@#*in' Masters". "I feel much safer when you do Pro 1.2 races because they never do this shit. That's how Mr. Fit broke his shoulder and ribs two years ago, getting chopped by some idiot trying to impress his kids at the end of a race that was all over." She was right. I've never seen a Pro 1,2 field sprint for glory when they're out of the race. Everyone rolls in, having left the effort on the course. In conclusion, I really learned a lot. Ergo: Masters' races in the South also are afflicted with "onlysomanymatchestoburnitis". No matches to burn trying to actively participate in a race, simply enough to sit in a group, but plenty of firepower to burn the road for the last 200 meters. Just as in the North and West there are guys that make me scratch my head and ask, "Why do they show up?" They could do exactly what they did today at the local club century ride with a whole lot less risk and food stops along they way. I guess it comes down to being able to brag about being a "bike racer". But…are you really a bike racer if you don't race your bike at bike races? Next week, more Masters Racing…
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