|
"You
just better start sniffin' your own rank subjugation jack 'cause
it's just you against your tattered libido, the bank and the mortician,
forever man and it wouldn't be luck if you could get out of life
alive" Yesterday I completed my first race of the season - The St. Peters Road Race. The race was a 65 mile "training" race in Kentuckiana. It's a part of a series of Spring Classics, like in Belgium, also billed as "training" races. The definition of "training" race being small prize list paid to a limited number of riders. This is okay though since we race for fun, right? As is generally the case, the first race of the year always begs the question, When did I get so old and slow? The course contained a 1.3 mile climb at 13% with the last 250 meters kicking up to 17%. Otherwise the terrain was rolling save for a shorter climb of the same pitch. It's sort of like the Ardennes region of Belgium but in Southern Indiana. We tackled the much feared Mur de Hooterville and the Cote de Bumblefuck instead of the Mur de Huy and the Cote de La Redoute. Tough stuff - just what I was looking for after a week of laying on my back catching a tan in Mexico requesting drinks from Roberto every time he walked by The Lovely Kathy and I lounging by the lagoon in Manzanillo. Upon returning from riding in Santa Barbara I felt what I supposed was pretty good form based on the way I was riding in the group rides, but then again riding with a group of Cat 4 masters and women isn't really a true test of the form. The subsequent 5 day layoff did that form no good.
The race happened like this. Rolled out at a sane pace, a Papa John dough boy attacked, every one chased until he got caught, things remained calm until another guy attacked and we got all strung out. 15 minutes later we hit the Cote de Hooterville, 4 guys went up the hill faster than the rest of us. We tried to catch those four guys for 3 laps and then gave up. We did the last lap like a cool down. For the most part the race was uneventful. TX Roadhouse rider Kevin Atkinson won; an Endeavor guy got 2nd and a guy from the Sakonnet Technology team finished 3rd. Papa John star Steve Spanbuer, riding a borrowed bike 4 cm too small won $20 for 4th which is damn poor compensation for that kind of effort, but it was a "training" race. I don't know who finished 5th. That was the money and it was 3 minutes or more up the road by the time the laffers of which I was one finished. Half the field was shelled by the end of lap 2. I assume there was a total of about 25-30 DNF's.
My brother Steve Swartzendruber was quite a cross country runner when he was in High School and College. He was conference champion, regional and sectional champ all-state etc, ran at the University of IL and then did road races thereafter. He could do a 10k in about 30 minutes which isn't world class but it's pretty fair. He was not in possession of a great deal of natural gifting as a runner but had a large amount of determination to be good and he had a very good High School coach. One of the lessons that I clearly remember this particular coach driving into my brothers head was this. "I don't ever want to see you be one of those guys that finish a race in a blaze of glory. The race is won on the course". If you have ever been to a cross country meet generally of Middle School or High School JV, rarely ever High School varsity or higher, you know what the coach meant by this. Long after the winners are done and the finishing chute is full of runners having finished the race, you'll begin to see the stragglers surging in some times up to 6 or 7 minutes after the leaders. They arrive at the last 100 meters and change from a pathetic, awkward jog near slow enough to be a walk, into a full sprint, arms and legs thrashing, face red and snot bubbles popping. In their silly young minds, I assume they see themselves as heroic, vanquishers, finishing strong after an epic struggle during the previous 5 kilometers or however long the race. Often the gaze of these little flailers is fixed not on the finishing chute, but off to the side, to catch a glimpse of whether or not mom or pop is looking on with pride as their precious child emerges from the battle on top- the Chariots of Fire theme playing in the background as the child sprints past another runner for 65th place, for the prestige of second from next to last. In reality, coaches and those who have any exposure to the sport view this spectacle and wonder, "Where was all that energy out on the course?" Cycling is afflicted in much the same way, but rarely at the higher levels. It's a regular occurrence as I observe only in citizens and masters' races. I've seen it also in Junior races come to think of it. The St. Peter Road Race had no dedicated Masters field, only Pro 1, 2, 3 and/or 3.4. So, the masters were lumped in by category, which is fine. Spanbauer is a master. Toalson is a master. Yours truly is a master. We can compete with the kids given the right set of circumstances. There are many fit and fast masters who race every weekend. The thing that distinguishes them isn't the speed or fitness, it's the level of foolishness displayed in their race antics. EPIC? As sure as I sit here at my dining room table typing this drivel which you now read, I relay the last 4 miles of the race to you without fabrication or embellishment: All break attempts had been snuffed. 5 riders were well up the road, at least 3 groups of 2 to 4 racers had dribbled up the road during the previous lap and those who survived were rolling in to the finish at about 18 per. This had been a hard race and most every one of the animators were tired and looking forward to climbing off their bikes, getting in their cars and going home. However, this could happen sooner at 25 per than at 18 per. Since we had a tailwind to the finish, I rolled up to Toalson and asked "any objection to me riding tempo into the finish". "You do want you want Druber." So, I went forward, hands on the tops and start rolling gradually faster. The group rolled like this for no more than a mile when suddenly a Papa Johns rider flashed past me with a Hand Job on his wheel. As they stormed past me, I said to the two dummy heroes (a term my football coach used to give to guys who'd blind side the practice squad players just to look good) "What the fuck are you doing? We're just rolling into the finish and getting this thing done. Race is over. Don't attack when I'm riding tempo into the finish." The two offenders slowed down and we started trading pulls, still at about 25 per, which was just fine. Everyone was happy. Those wanting to do a pace line did and those wanting to sit in a draft could do so comfortably. Status quo for the next 3 miles and all was good. We'd roll in, dismount, say "good race, see you next week" to our fellows, get in our cars and go home. Ah, therein was a huckleberry under the saddle of one Ding Dong Deedle Dee. With the finish line in sight and presumably a wife or two as well, one of the Hand Job (Indiana Masters) Hubbards made like a middle school flailer at the end of a cross country race and burst out into a full on gallop from about 4 bike lengths back, unable to be satisfied with being a finisher, this idiot somehow saw virtue in finishing 8 spots out of the money, rather than 15 spots or 10 spots out of the money. That's all it took. Every rider with the exception of this writer and Toalson over the age of 35 took off in full sprint. Barbasol, Papa John, Hand Job, all zooming into the finish in a blaze of glory. I lowered my head in shame for my age group. I turned around and saw Toalson and Harry Clark finish with incredulous looks on their faces. What was it that MKA wrote recently about man-children on bikes? Here is the point. Nothing you could possibly do on the face of God's green earth calls you out more loudly and clearly as a Poser, a Fred, a Hubbard, a Dipshit, or a Damn Fool than finishing a race 3 minutes or more out of the money by launching a full on sprint 200 meters from the line; especially when you've gotten a free tow by 3 or 4 riders doing the tempo work to get home sooner. You just as well show up at the start line wearing lab goggles and duct tape on your helmet. Ferchiss…have some dignity! THE RATIONALE Oh, really? Where was that competitive fire when the race was being won in the early attacks and counters? "But it's a training race so I'm training my sprint" Oh, really? Why not train your fitness on the course by doing something other than hanging on by the skin of you teeth ducking and dodging the wind on some other rider's wheel? Why not try to pull back a break or launch an attack? "But I wanted to tell my wife/child/girlfriend that I won the field sprint." Now we're getting closer to the truth. Well, then you have to answer the return question "Great! What did you win?" Best not to open that can of worms to boost the fragile ego, eh? Besides which, define field. You were in the 5th group to finish the race. Driving home the phone conversation with The Lovely Kathy went like this. "How was the race?" "I got my ass handed to me." "Really?" "Yeah, it was tough. I finished with the laffers so I wasn't shelled but I was a bit sluggish and couldn't get to the breaks when they went but I was at least aggressive and made some attacks here and there. It was exactly what I needed." "That's nice, let me tell you about the cat..."and so on. Guess what? Your spouse/child/girlfriend doesn't give a rip about anything in the race other than you don't come home with a broken collar bone and road rash and that you're home in time to cut the lawn. Most assuredly they definitely don't care about you winning a field sprint for nothing place. In the end I guess it's near impossible to convince a person who's never won a race in his life that there is no high merit in sprinting one's guts out at the end of a race for nothing place, but trust me on this one. You reveal yourself a buffoon and a joke. The race is won on the course. Flail
On,
|
