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In the (Feed) Zone - Hillsboro-Roubaix
It has been said that if one lives long enough one is bound that have an experience that one never dreamed possible. Last Saturday, I had just such an experience. No, I didn’t finally get The Lovely Kathy and Shane from the L Word into a ménage a trios…still hoping to stick around long enough for that to happen. The experience I’ll detail had to do with bike racing.
HILLSBORO-ROUBAIX ALL ABOUT THE TIME I WAS RIDDEN OFF A WHEEL IN A TAILWIND
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OLD GUYS RULE Most bike races that are considered “good” are thought of as such because they are difficult. It is what makes them memorable. Hillsboro has become such a race. Less than half of each field manages to finish each race. Despite that, turnout for the Hillsboro races this year was of record proportion. The Cat 3 race filled up within 24 hours of registration opening. The Cat 5 and 4 fields were full weeks prior to the race date. The masters fields were each over 70 and the Pro 1, 2 field filled up to capacity on race day. It’s a testament to organizer Rich Pierce, and the Burg of Hillsboro. Rich has found an excellent venue and the townspeople are very, very supportive of the race.
I opted this year for the Pro 1, 2 race. Not assuming that it would be any more of a challenge than the master race, quite the contrary. Rumor had it that both Steve Tilford and Clark Priebe had pre registered for the master race of 66 tough miles. When I heard that news, I immediately panicked and registered for the Pro 1, 2 event. I am after all, like many of you, a river that flows along the path of least resistance.
Upon receiving my race number, I was greeted in line by the Legend, himself, Mr. Tilford. The fact that he was listed among the pre registered masters racers was a clerical error. He informed the registrar that he would be racing with the youngsters. In addition to Mr. Tilford, another aged stalwart, Ethan Froese, would be hanging with the young crowd for 88 miles. Ethan had already won a Pro 1,2 road race this season. It’s been rumored that he’s even given up drinking High Life in his dedication to the sport. I’d come off of some good training weeks and considered myself able to at least complete the distance and perchance do well, if only I could ride intelligently. You know, out of the wind. A task which given my penchant for taking meaningless glory pulls, could prove to be a difficult task.
The first two laps of the race were rather pedestrian. For 44 miles the peloton was willing to allow 3 escaped riders – Bill Stolte (Tilford’s team mate), Ryan White of the ABD/Geargrinder team and Jordan Roessing of ISCorp plenty of freedom and enough rope to eventually hang themselves. We rode twice around the gravel strewn back roads in the crosswinds and up the hills with the pel essentially in tact. I even had time to share my story of being yelled at by another aged California bike racing legend with Tilfie, who then launched into a nearly perfect imitation of Thurlow Rogers that ended with “Don’t you know I got third in the Olympics!” It was hysterical.
On lap 3 I tossed my lot in with the Texas Roadhouse riders, more specifically John Puffer, and we initiated a two rider pace line. Puffer and I traded pulls, he because his team was not represented in the break which was rolling along some 5 minutes up the road and me because I was bored and I’m an idiot. As he and I traded tugs, Tilfie sat in third wheel and from time to time would attack us at the crests of the small hills just for the hell of it and because he could. It made me think of the way a cat bats a mouse around before he finally kills and eats it. Once the dust would settle after the ensuing chase by the ABD guys, Puffer and I resumed our alternating pulls.
“So, Puffer, you think you can get some of your boys up here to help?”
“Yeah, but I think we’re going too hard right now for them to get up here.”
“Really? Huh…Maybe next time Tilford attacks we should stop the chase and let your boys get up here, cause I really have no reason to do this unless you’re gonna offer me some money.”
After another Tilford attack, the Roadhouse guys organized at the front and took over for the remaining 8 miles of the 3rd lap. I took myself back to the center of the pel and drank some Geritol in the draft. It was a mistake that I would later pay for. I should have stayed forward.
“Jesus, Druber that hurt. You’re killing me.” The voice was that of Cory Hickman on the Vitamin Water/Trek team. Cory was in his first 1, 2 race and appeared to be enjoying the experience with snot and dried spittle on his cheeks.
“Who me? That was Puffer doing all the damage. Damn dude is a mule. I could barely stay on his wheel every time he pulled through, then Tilford was attacking….hey….Where did everyone go? Sorta looks like we lost about 40 guys.”
As the swarm moved back toward Hillsboro with the Texas Roadhouse team trading pulls into the 20mph head wind, the feed zone hill came into sight. Official race protocol neutralized the feed zone. No attacking allowed. That of course meant that each time the first rider got clear of the feed zone, he would bolt up the remainder of the hill onto the false flat into Hillsboro and up the 9% 400 meter long climb after that, while those poor slobs like me who were still searching for their feeds were getting gapped. The first 3 laps, it was no great feat to catch the pack.
On the last trip through the feed zone the race entirely detonated. Riders were strewn all across the road while Tilford and Brian Jensen of the Successful Living team launched themselves out of the feed zone. As other riders reacted from the front of the feed zone a group of 20 was formed – those who either took no feed or who were able to close the gaps quickly. I found myself on the unfortunate end of the split. My poor positioning back in the pack forced me to be caught behind guys who were weaving up the narrow climb like paper boys. I pushed my way past two such wobble knocks by physically shoving them out of the way as they blindly wobbled across my path.
“Hey, no fair” one of them wailed.
“Hey kid, this is bike racing – it’s all fair. It’s a sport where treachery is revered. Grow up.”
THE OTHER OLD GUY
I saw Ethan crest the hill ahead of me and I made a major effort to pursue him down the hill at 45 per. I smashed onto the brick pavement pounding the pedals to close the gap. After a mile of chasing over the brick streets I was on Ethan’s wheel but he was not letting up. We turned the corner out of town and I saw 4 Roadhouse guys who had just abandoned the race, including Puffer, who yelled sarcastic encouragement to me.
“Go Druber….what a Rube.”
Over the next 400 meters Ethan shelled the other two riders with his mighty pulls. I was firmly beyond the red zone, into the implode zone as Ethan motioned for me to pull through.
“Can’t…fat. Gin.” I gasped.
“C’mon Druber…I need you.” Ethan countered.
I was making HeadsMACK like gurgling noises in my throat and choking on phlegm.
“Gimmee a sec cantcha?” I asked when really, I needed more like 3 minutes.
The lead group was about 300 meters up the road and flying. There was no field behind us; only single riders or doubles similar to Ethan and me, either gamely attempting to catch back on or completely falling apart and giving up. It was a desperate moment.
I pulled through and gave it my all. We slowed down about 2 per.
“Ferchissakes Druber, you call that a pull? What good are you? The group is right there and if we don’t catch them before the crosswinds start, we never will!”
“Gurgle.”
Ethan resumed at the front and I held on. Once recovered, I started taking turns and we worked together for the next two miles up and over some small rollers in the cross wind and back into the tail wind. That is when it happened. On a long tailwind section of road, Ethan simply rode me off his wheel. He turned around to encourage me to get back on but I had nothing.
Jesus….what had just happened to me? I was ridden off a wheel, by a man my age, in a 20 mph tail wind. I was shattered. My legs were numb and my lungs were on fire. I had no answers. “Fuggit,” I said. 15 miles to go. I set off up the road toward the end of the race.
Before the finish Ethan caught the group. Tilford won the race. Brian Jensen finished 2nd. I ended up finishing 29th. Cory Hickman, he of the snot caked cheeks, took the next to last money spot in his first 1,2 race. The ABD guys put 4 in the top 11.
As I pulled across the finish line, I was sore everywhere. I stunk. My jersey was caked with salt. I had snot all over the top tube of my pretty new bike. My stomach hurt. I was a mess. My team has been discussing of late, REAL versus not real bike races. If a time trial is a REAL race – If a REAL bike race must include at least one current or former Labor Power racer or at least a master who races in Southern California – If a masters race is a REAL race at all – Are criteriums REAL races? It was left up to the wisdom of little Jackson Daugherty to put the discussion to rest. “Any race that involves grown men paying to play bikes is not a REAL race”. On the way home, I thought of Fabian Cancellara. He had won Milan-San Remo the weekend before. He had to race about 100 miles further than we had raced today. I can’t imagine.
It doesn’t make Hillsboro any less difficult or challenging, but seriously – picture finishing that fourth lap and having 4 more to go…
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