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HOLY
TOLEDO! Life
is my friend
As noted in my previous report on the Chrono Synclastic Infundibula that formed over the Monsters of The Midway criterium on Mothers Day, I was scheduled to participate in a stage race in Michigan this weekend past. The Tour of Kensington Valley, held in the far West Suburban area of Detroit was my first foray into Michigan racing since 2001 where I participated in the inaugural Cone-Azalia Classic and an end of the season event just after 9/11 on a race track in Waterford Hills. The Lovely Kathy and I spend a couple of weekends in the summer or fall in Lake County, sipping Michigan wine and enjoying the Lake Michigan shoreline, but those trips are for fun only, which is to say - no bike racing allowed. So, it long has been a desire of mine to return to Michigan to race and enjoy the rolling terrain and natural beauty of the state on a bike. When I saw the TRUESPORT link to The Tour of Kensington Valley ( a timed stage race) on a weekend that I had no particular plans, I signed up. After my previous stage race experience of having my ass handed to me at the Conquer the Canyons SR in Thousand Oaks, I decided quickly against racing in the Pro 1,2 race because 'didjaseeemeee' hasn't been doing my ego any good as of late. Thus, I chose to race against men my own age. Plus, I wanted to see some new faces. I was sure that the sMACKs would be in flying in full electric blue glory up in Madison, WI the same weekend and as much fun as they are, I need a break from them. I'm looking for new material. I found the Tour of Kensington Valley to be a well organized race, put on by Joe Lekovish of Midwest Cyclinig Group. Every rider was given a timing chip to mount on the fork of their bike and the stage winners were given yellow jerseys to wear. The organization was so good that the TT times were posted by the time I returned to the parking area after completing the first stage. The venue and courses were excellent and it was well worth the 6 hour drive from Champaign. This is what happened. The first stage was a time trial in the Kensington Metro Park, a scenic forest preserve and recreation area in Milford, MI. The TT was 1.4 miles down hill, around a cone and back up the 1.4 mile 6% grade to the finish. I won. My time was 5:32. This time was 5 seconds better than 2nd place finisher Mark (don't call me Lance) Armstrong of the Holy Toledo Saturn team. 5:32 was slower than the winning time in all categories other than women and Cat 5 and would have been smack in the center of the Pro 1,2 race, which was dominated by the Priority Health continental team. So I won, but I didn't feel very good about it. Double
chins and bowling pins Red Hot Chili Peppers, Especially in Michigan I was wearing a yellow jersey and I had no team mates. I fully expected to be the object of countless attacks in the afternoon criterium stage. However, my first real taste of Michigan/Ohio master's racing was quite the opposite of what I was familiar with or expecting. The racing up there is quite friendly, genteel, polite and creepy in a Stepford Wives sort of way. There is a man in Michigan by the name of Mike Krywanski. He's an accomplished racer. He was the bronze medalist in both the road race and time trial at last year's master's national 55-59 age group in the PA mountains. The masters in Michigan/Ohio are afraid of him. They won't attack him, they won't ride in front of him, and they won't ride beside him. They prefer to simply ride on his wheel. He was in third place after the time trial by tenths of seconds behind the afore mentioned Armstrong. I had a difficult time understanding the fear the masters of Michigan/Ohio have for Mr. Krywanski. He had introduced himself to me while we were waiting in the start line for the TT earlier in the day. He was a pleasant guy, affable and certainly did not engender fear when I met him. However, during the criterium stage I learned that Mr Krywanski has been bitch slapping the Michigan/Ohio masters for years and years and they have simply become resigned to the fact that to challenge him is futile. Oh to be sure, from time to time the Holy Toledo guys or the Flailing Rhino guys would send one of their role players go up the road with an attack that sputtered after about 300 meters. Mr. Krywanski then rides tempo until the aggressor is put back into his place at the back of the pack behind Mr. Krywanski's wheel. Mr. Krywanski is the Pope of Michigan Masters racing; stately, mysterious and kind, but if he is challenged, he has the power to banish you to hell. So, the criterium stage was without attack until one of Mr. Krywanski's team mates decided to launch one of his own. This can be done, since as a team mate, he need not fear reprisal from The Pope of Michigan Masters Racing. Ed. For the sake of the article, Toledo, OH is included in the Michigan masters racing scene, as it is a border town and the bike racers participate in the MI racing series. After the attack, the Holy Toledo Saturn guys decided it was time for Armstrong to spring into action. He went up the road to join The Pope's team mate. When I saw the race number 316 flash by, I was forced to protect my 5 second lead. After I caught the two attackers, I expected what I've become used to from the sMACKs, a flurry of counter attacks. But, as I said, the masters racing in Michigan is much more polite than that. Upon the catch, the field simply cuddled back into the cozy blanket of its comfort zone on the Pope's wheel. "These guys like your wheel don't they" The Pope nodded his head and smiled. "Yeah, it's the damnedest thing isn't it?" "So, do they ever attack you?" "Well they used to but for about the last 14 years or so, this is pretty much how the races go. Every now and then, a new guy moves up to masters age and tries to attack me, but after I reel him in about 3 times, he plays by the rules." "Wow. I wish I had that kind of power. You'd think that a team with the numbers of the Holy Toledo's would be launching right and left until you were broken. That's what happens to me at home." "It's what you'd think isn't it? Check this out" A grin stretched across the tanned face of The Pope revealing brilliant white teeth under a striking silver mustache. He feathered his brakes and came to a complete halt. He unclipped his shoes from the pedals and dismounted his bike. Much to my amazement, the entire field stopped and waited patiently in hushed awe until The Pope remounted his carbon Giant and started riding again some 4 minutes later. "My God, that was the most powerful thing I've ever seen." "You know once back in 2005 I was testing the limits of my authority and I was able to keep a 45 minute crit down to one lap? I had a hard time keeping the bike moving at 2 mph average. Guys were falling off their bikes the entire time. You'd be surprised how many masters racers can't do track stands. I'll tell you something else…You've got that same power, and you just don't know it. After you pulled my team mate and Armstrong back a few laps ago, the rest of these guys don't know what to think now. They're pissing themselves with fear. They don't know who to follow. They know they need to follow your wheel but they're afraid to get off of mine. Just for shits and giggles, ride beside me and watch what happens." This I did and for fun, The Pope and I began zigzagging across the course, riding into the parking lots of the business in the light industrial office complex, across their lawns and back onto the course. The Holy Toledos, the Flailing Rhinos and the mix of other independents and small teams all followed in dutiful procession behind. At one point he suggested that we should reverse course and do the second half of the race in the opposite direction but I was afraid of the scientific implications of such an experiment. You see, we all had timing chips mounted on our bikes. I feared we might rip the fabric of the space/time continuum and we'd all disappear into the past. I nixed the proposal, with all due respect of course. After all, he is The Pope of Michigan Masters Racing and he pretty much does what he wants. After a second thought The Pope concurred and invited me to make an attack. "Launch an attack and watch what happens." I did, and one of the 10 Holy Toledo Saturn guys got onto my wheel. We had a gap of about 5 seconds. I gave him a flick of my elbow and he just sat there. "The Pope will send me to hell if I pull." He cried. "I'm sorry I just can't" "But The Pope said it was okay for me to attack." I countered "Sure, for you, you don't live and race here every weekend. You'll be gone next weekend. You don't have to deal with him every week!" He warbled. Realizing I wasn't going to convince the guy otherwise, I sat up and The Pope rolled back up to us with the field in tow. "Jeezuz, Mike, you really do own these guys don't you?" "Yeah, the only time they feel like they can actually race their bikes is in the last 200 meters of a race, so that's what they do." "And you let them do that?" "Well, it is bike racing. I honestly have enough respect for the sport that I'd actually enjoy it if these guys would race the entire time, but they're just too afraid. You have to keep in mind; I don't literally prevent them from doing any thing they want to in races. It's their fear that keeps them locked down." "MMMM. I see. Cripes, you'd think they'd just quit bike racing and take up bowling or fishing or something, eh?" "It's been my thought as well. Here we go!" With that, The Pope launched an attack up the slight rise into the finish line with 6 laps of the race remaining. He was followed by one of the sans team riders and me. I countered the attack and got clear. I spent the next 3 laps solo but was able to gain only a 5-7 second advantage so I gave it up with 2 laps to go. Now, you'd expect a team that is trying to win a stage race with a rider sitting in second place, 5 seconds back would find this the perfect opportunity to grasp the golden ring. The Yellow Jersey was on the attack, he spend 3 laps solo and was unable to get a clear gap. He's tired. He has no team. He's just been reeled in. He's vulnerable. ATTACK! I can hear HeadsMACK barking the words in my mind as I write this. I was waiting for an attack. I was concerned. Yet, the new fear that I had created in the hearts of the Michigan and Ohio Masters was too strong. Upon the catch, they simply slowed down, dutifully falling into line behind Mike and me, waiting for the final 200 meters. I was astonished. The race ended with the Holy Toledos attempting to build a leadout for Armstrong, but not really ever getting it done as we came through the next to last turn as a boiling mess, going slow and 5 abreast. Having an aversion to sloppy field sprints I jumped with about a kilo to go. Despite the fact that I am the slowest sprinter I know, I was around the last corner and about 100 meters from the line before one of the Flailing Rhinos - previously invisible - jumped from the pack and took the V by a bike length. Armstrong and I finished side by side for 2nd and 3rd. He gained two bonus seconds on me and the GC was as follows going into the road race on Sunday.
Red Hot Chili Peppers, Especially in Michigan The final stage was back at the Kensington Metro Park for a road race on rolling terrain with 3 good climbs per each 8.5 mile lap. I was adjusting myself to the mind set of the Yellow Jersey wearer. Sit back. Don't be the aggressor. No time bonuses were offered on the stage, all that need be done is finish alongside #316, Armstrong. I was crawling out of my skin and hoping that we'd be racing bikes today. I'd asked for a special dispensation from The Pope. His response was to remind me that he doesn't control the Michigan and Ohio masters, their own fears control them. We rolled out with The Pope sitting on the front while I maintained 2nd or third wheel. One of the Flailing Rhinos made several attempts at softening the field, attacking up hills and on flats and then curiously letting up while he checked stats on his power tap screen. I'm not making this part up. I was flabbergasted and not sure I had actually seen what I thought I saw. So, I sat on his wheel and waited. As soon as he recovered from the previous attack he sped up, slowed down and began pushing the button on his computer. He did this 4 more times on the first lap. I found this remarkable. I supposed he has a coach he has to relay the info to, but I've never seen a rider actually checking his stats like that mid race. I made tempo up the final hill of the first lap and turned around to see the state of the field. The guys were single file with a few gaps, but essentially in tact. One rider to me it was a "nice effort". I told you, these guys are polite. If he was a sMACK or Labor, the reaction would have been "Is that all you got?" The Holy Toledo's were keeping their 2nd place rider in contention. They were banking on Armstrong beating me by two seconds in a bunch sprint up a hill. At one point I was at the front of the race going down hill at about 17 per with the field bunched up behind. One of The Popes team mates attacked and I saw #316 flash by again. It was a repeat of his only attack the previous day in the criterium. Once again, I rode tempo to protect my lead and caught the duo about 15 seconds later. No further attempts were made. I had succeeded in building a fear. Though not to the proportion of the fear The Pope had built over the years, it was a fear none the less. The race was without attack from that point on. I could have simply rolled in next to Armstrong after waiting for the end of the race but I had to get home for a college graduation party for two of my kids. I was pressed for time; I needed the race to get over with sooner rather than later. On the next lap I began to get restless. I desperately wanted the Holy Toledo Saturn guys to animate the race. They were all bunched up behind me. When asked why they weren't trying to win the race, one of them told me I was "blocking" their efforts to animate the race. I never realized I took up that much space in the road. He then got cheeky with me for not pulling the field around. I tugged at the chest of my yellow jersey and said "Do you see this jersey? This means that I don't have to sit on the front of this race. You guys have a man 2.5 second behind me, why in heaven's name aren't you attacking me?" He had no real response other than to say "That's the way it is and if you don't like it, well that's the way it is." On the penultimate lap, The Pope and I had agreed to attack jointly over the top of the long climb about halfway through the lap. As we crested the climb, we had created a separation that included a West Coast Michigan rider, a Flailing Rhino or two and Armstrong. The Pope pulled through strongly after the downhill and a Flailing Rhino was on his wheel…not pulling through, not trying to help build our gap. I yelled at him. I cursed and demanded that he pull through. I called him the slang term for a birth canal. I had blown my top, I was a seething madman. He did not pull though. The forming break came to a screeching halt. The Flailing Rhino rolled back my way and said "Gee, take it easy. Settle down." Then -again I am not making this part up - when he thought I was out of ear shot he said almost under his breath "You Butt-Hole." Butt-Hole. It's a derogatory name I thought I'd never hear come out of a 45+ masters bike racer's mouth for as long as I'm fortunate to live. Butt-Hole. I used the word in a derogatory way for the last time perhaps when I was in 2nd or 3rd grade. I didn't say "Ass" because my second grade teacher used to grab offending students around their jaws, pinching just behind the cheeks with her thumb on one side and her index and middle finger on the other. It hurt like hell and I knew that "Butt-Hole" was not likely to result in her particular form of corporal punishment if she overheard the verbal jousting on the playground. That was perhaps 36 years ago. Instantly I realized that not only had I built fear, but I was also starting to build hatred. I saw an opportunity. I learned long ago that one of the key tools in the Labor Power tool kit was to make other teams fear you, and then to hate you before you pound them because it makes it hurt all that much more. Generally I'm reticent to resort to such tactics, being a pacifist and all, but in this instance it made perfect sense. These guys didn't know me to be the easy going laissez faire guy that I am. To them, I was a big, tan ogre. I had just blown my top. I had a temper. They didn't know me and they hated me. I thought "These guys think I'm a Butt-Hole? I won't see them next weekend or the weekend after that. I'm free". So, when I saw that my closest competitor in GC was on the front of the race at the base of the next 10% grade, lifting the pace, I asked myself WWLD? (What Would Labor Do?) I recalled how Hover told me he won the Conquer the Canyons stage race in dramatic fashion by attacking the last climb and burying himself in TT mode for 5 miles to secure the V. He had no team support; he was backed into a corner and yet he pounded those guys out in CA. I was stirred. I dropped a big ring bomb going up the hill and got clear. I put my head down and made myself hurt, just like Hover told me he did it. It was working. I had a gap and it was growing. For the next 12 miles I made myself ride like I was doing a 20k TT. It worked. I ended up winning with a margin of one minute. I won my second stage and the overall in the process and I got to keep the yellow jersey. After the race, I was talking with The Pope of Michigan Masters Racing and he told me that the Holy Toledos were still banking on a bunch finish despite the fact that I was disappearing into the distance. He told me they were expecting him and his team to mount a chase. He said he told them that as the team with a rider in second place, the onus was on them to chase. He told me the Holy Toledo said "We'll leave him out there to cook for a while." The Pope's response was "I don't think he's cooking, it looks more like he's riding away." After the race I saw my former team mate Derek Witte who is now riding as an Elite rider on the Priority Health continental team. His team had won the Pro 1,2 race. He asked me if I'd won, I said that yes I had. He congratulated me and in typical fashion, I down played the effort. "It was just an old guys race, not 1,2 so it doesn't count." Derek said "Hey…A win is a win. Good job." That's all he said. A light bulb went off for me. He's right. I realized that I was wrong to believe it's more admirable to be pack fill or to get popped from a Pro 1,2 race than it is to win a Masters race. My ego actually feels BETTER after winning a race with guys my own age than it does when I get beat up in Pro 1,2 races. So, to anyone whom I've offended by downplaying wins that come against guys their own age - I don't think it's cheating any more. If you're challenging yourself to win, you're doing well. That said I still believe it's weak to stack fields at small races and bully your way to wins by sheer numbers rather than talent. Next weekend - Edgar Soto Memorial Stage Race.
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