Saturday, April 19, 2008
Copperopolis
After an evening of huge plates of pasta and surprisingly fine discount lodging in Stockton, Tom G. and I woke at dawn to make the trek to that most fabled of local road races, Copperopolis.
It was a crystal-clear morning as we flew past almond groves, old wooden general stores, and twisted through the rolling hills, still jade green from the winter rains. A huge full moon remained low in the sky as we arrived in the tiny farm town of Milton. It was a balmy 34 degrees, with small patches of frost on the ground, when we parked and hit the registration table, groggy and freezing.
"The Paris-Roubaix of California," as it has become known, has earned a reputation as nerve-fraying, will-testing challenge, and an idiotic late-night recon on our part revealed why: miles of lumpy, uneven, teeth-rattling "pavement" littered with gravel and loose rocks, super narrow roads, a fast, twisting descent on crumbling chip-and-seal, and a substantial climb, about three miles in total, with three very steep pitches. A ballbuster, both figuratively and literally.
We'd both signed up for the Elite race that, strangely, was a full lap longer than most of the other 4 and 5 races, so we had a robust 63 miles of fun to look forward to. I attempted a warm-up, but in what is becoming a running joke, I put my bike in the trainer, clipped in, looked down at the time, clipped out, took the bike off the trainer and rolled to the start.
To say that I had low expectations for the race was an understatement; I even wore my old kit since I figured the odds of stacking in at some point were about 100 percent. Still, I was calm and resigned as we lined up. And we were off.
The initial pace was reasonable, controlled in no small part by a stiff crosswind and the ridiculous road surface. Also, the big climb came only about a mile or so into the race – with an uphill grade to the start of the hill – so no one was too anxious to push the pace. I worked myself through the peloton to a not-perfect-but-good-enough 15 or so back from the lead. We passed the oddly positioned feed zone and soon began the first big push up the hill.
This is where I thought my relative wealth of "experience" as a Cat 5 would play to my favor. I knew in a field of young, inexperienced racers, once someone jumped on the climb, almost everyone would try to follow. And they did.
But I also knew this was a longish climb with some gnarly 10+ percent sections – while many would try, it was going to take a special person to power up the whole thing. My plan was to find a smooth pace as close to the edge as I could get, breathing and heart rate under control, and wait for the blown, drooling newbs to float back down like the first snowflakes of winter. With most of that lead group now shelled and useless, we'd jump back in with whoever was left at the top and duke it out over the course of the race for the top few places. Yep, nothing to do now but sit back and prepare for the slaughter.
But something happened that neither Tom nor I anticipated – none of the lead group came back. No one. Not ONE guy. (Seriously, what the HELL?) As we crested the climb, the lead group was pulling away.
We'd missed the train, and we both knew we weren't getting back on. Almost everyone left was still wheezing up the hill, so they couldn't help us. We had, in a word, a situation.
We were able to put together a small paceline with a pair of Village Peddler guys and a retro guy, downtube shifters, vintage jersey, the works. And off to work we went.
And work it was, kids. The course was set up like a giant oval, and the wind was blowing hard off the northeast corner, which meant that there was a stiff cross or headwind for most of the race.
On the plus side, it had warmed up to nearly 70 degrees, and the course was beautiful. We were in the first ripples of the Sierra foothills, so the rolling farmland abruptly gave way to steep, shady, oak lined hills, with sheer drops into deep, rocky canyons and fast-moving water far below. There was unexpectedly a large lake just past the summit of the climb, with locals Jet-Skiing away. A huge bull awkwardly propped himself on top of a tall mound to watch us. Animals strike curious poses, indeed. The rest was ranches, barns, lush green grass, and sunshine.
After a rough start, we began to pick up the pace, and were soon smoothly working the paceline, spinning quickly in the big ring. We turned west into a long section of rollers and kept the pace solid before beginning a longish climb to the descent.
I was not looking forward to this, to put it mildly. Given the grade, the twists, the pavement, and the stomach-churning descriptions I'd read in a number of reports, it seemed as though this descent was going to be nothing more than an express train to the local trauma center.
The surprising reality was that, even by my standards, it really wasn't a big deal. It wasn't particularly steep by NorCal standards, and while it had a few twists, with the exception of one barbed wire-lined blind left, the sightlines were clear. It was as bumpy as hell – there were times the bike was vibrating so badly I could hardly see – but it was just bumpy; there were no serious ruts, seams or deep potholes to speak of.
In fact, as I finished up the first lap, I realized that the entire course wasn't quite as bad I'd been led to believe. It had the big climb and a speedy descent, but it was rolling and fairly mild otherwise. The legendary pavement was certainly punishing, but it was predictable; there were no deadly craters, wheel-grabbing ruts or real hazards that I saw. A luxury bed and breakfast had even repaved a mile of the climb. So despite almost slamming into a huge bulldozer in the road at 40 mph on the descent, I finished the second lap feeling fresh, hopeful that we might even be able to make up some ground and start picking off some stragglers.
Still, 63 miles is a long way to go on a course like this. As I made my way up the big climb for the third time, things started to unravel. The rough pavement had made it difficult to eat and drink, so I was dehydrated and running out of fuel as I cranked hard up the last of the steeps. I tried to keep up the pace, but the relentless pounding had taken a huge toll on my back and shoulders, and the fatigue began to drag me down. We turned into the rollers and Tom pulled away.
By the time I reached the last climb to the descent, I had entered The Land of Bonk, a happy, blurry, 12-mph world of fluffy clouds, cool breezes, and fields of tall, soft grass beckoning me to curl up for sweet, sweet nap.
I managed to resist and crested the hill. This last descent was merciless. The violent hammering sent searing pain through my feet, ankles, wrists, lower back, and neck, and the crushing fatigue made it tough to concentrate. A remarkable torrent of profanity followed me down the hill.
About halfway down, Olivia and a group of women flew by me like I was standing still, which snapped me back to reality. I summoned whatever I had left and cranked up the last rise to the finish. As I got out of the saddle to do a mock sprint to the line, my quads cramped up so badly I had to sit back down. Just that kind of day.
So while I certainly didn't crush it, and my initial strategy went horribly, horribly wrong, I did manage to finish myself a big-ass helping of Copperopolis. To paraphrase The Clash: "I've been beat up, I've been shown up, but I'm not down." I'll be back.
It was a crystal-clear morning as we flew past almond groves, old wooden general stores, and twisted through the rolling hills, still jade green from the winter rains. A huge full moon remained low in the sky as we arrived in the tiny farm town of Milton. It was a balmy 34 degrees, with small patches of frost on the ground, when we parked and hit the registration table, groggy and freezing.
"The Paris-Roubaix of California," as it has become known, has earned a reputation as nerve-fraying, will-testing challenge, and an idiotic late-night recon on our part revealed why: miles of lumpy, uneven, teeth-rattling "pavement" littered with gravel and loose rocks, super narrow roads, a fast, twisting descent on crumbling chip-and-seal, and a substantial climb, about three miles in total, with three very steep pitches. A ballbuster, both figuratively and literally.
We'd both signed up for the Elite race that, strangely, was a full lap longer than most of the other 4 and 5 races, so we had a robust 63 miles of fun to look forward to. I attempted a warm-up, but in what is becoming a running joke, I put my bike in the trainer, clipped in, looked down at the time, clipped out, took the bike off the trainer and rolled to the start.
To say that I had low expectations for the race was an understatement; I even wore my old kit since I figured the odds of stacking in at some point were about 100 percent. Still, I was calm and resigned as we lined up. And we were off.
The initial pace was reasonable, controlled in no small part by a stiff crosswind and the ridiculous road surface. Also, the big climb came only about a mile or so into the race – with an uphill grade to the start of the hill – so no one was too anxious to push the pace. I worked myself through the peloton to a not-perfect-but-good-enough 15 or so back from the lead. We passed the oddly positioned feed zone and soon began the first big push up the hill.
This is where I thought my relative wealth of "experience" as a Cat 5 would play to my favor. I knew in a field of young, inexperienced racers, once someone jumped on the climb, almost everyone would try to follow. And they did.
But I also knew this was a longish climb with some gnarly 10+ percent sections – while many would try, it was going to take a special person to power up the whole thing. My plan was to find a smooth pace as close to the edge as I could get, breathing and heart rate under control, and wait for the blown, drooling newbs to float back down like the first snowflakes of winter. With most of that lead group now shelled and useless, we'd jump back in with whoever was left at the top and duke it out over the course of the race for the top few places. Yep, nothing to do now but sit back and prepare for the slaughter.
But something happened that neither Tom nor I anticipated – none of the lead group came back. No one. Not ONE guy. (Seriously, what the HELL?) As we crested the climb, the lead group was pulling away.
We'd missed the train, and we both knew we weren't getting back on. Almost everyone left was still wheezing up the hill, so they couldn't help us. We had, in a word, a situation.
We were able to put together a small paceline with a pair of Village Peddler guys and a retro guy, downtube shifters, vintage jersey, the works. And off to work we went.
And work it was, kids. The course was set up like a giant oval, and the wind was blowing hard off the northeast corner, which meant that there was a stiff cross or headwind for most of the race.
On the plus side, it had warmed up to nearly 70 degrees, and the course was beautiful. We were in the first ripples of the Sierra foothills, so the rolling farmland abruptly gave way to steep, shady, oak lined hills, with sheer drops into deep, rocky canyons and fast-moving water far below. There was unexpectedly a large lake just past the summit of the climb, with locals Jet-Skiing away. A huge bull awkwardly propped himself on top of a tall mound to watch us. Animals strike curious poses, indeed. The rest was ranches, barns, lush green grass, and sunshine.
After a rough start, we began to pick up the pace, and were soon smoothly working the paceline, spinning quickly in the big ring. We turned west into a long section of rollers and kept the pace solid before beginning a longish climb to the descent.
I was not looking forward to this, to put it mildly. Given the grade, the twists, the pavement, and the stomach-churning descriptions I'd read in a number of reports, it seemed as though this descent was going to be nothing more than an express train to the local trauma center.
The surprising reality was that, even by my standards, it really wasn't a big deal. It wasn't particularly steep by NorCal standards, and while it had a few twists, with the exception of one barbed wire-lined blind left, the sightlines were clear. It was as bumpy as hell – there were times the bike was vibrating so badly I could hardly see – but it was just bumpy; there were no serious ruts, seams or deep potholes to speak of.
In fact, as I finished up the first lap, I realized that the entire course wasn't quite as bad I'd been led to believe. It had the big climb and a speedy descent, but it was rolling and fairly mild otherwise. The legendary pavement was certainly punishing, but it was predictable; there were no deadly craters, wheel-grabbing ruts or real hazards that I saw. A luxury bed and breakfast had even repaved a mile of the climb. So despite almost slamming into a huge bulldozer in the road at 40 mph on the descent, I finished the second lap feeling fresh, hopeful that we might even be able to make up some ground and start picking off some stragglers.
Still, 63 miles is a long way to go on a course like this. As I made my way up the big climb for the third time, things started to unravel. The rough pavement had made it difficult to eat and drink, so I was dehydrated and running out of fuel as I cranked hard up the last of the steeps. I tried to keep up the pace, but the relentless pounding had taken a huge toll on my back and shoulders, and the fatigue began to drag me down. We turned into the rollers and Tom pulled away.
By the time I reached the last climb to the descent, I had entered The Land of Bonk, a happy, blurry, 12-mph world of fluffy clouds, cool breezes, and fields of tall, soft grass beckoning me to curl up for sweet, sweet nap.
I managed to resist and crested the hill. This last descent was merciless. The violent hammering sent searing pain through my feet, ankles, wrists, lower back, and neck, and the crushing fatigue made it tough to concentrate. A remarkable torrent of profanity followed me down the hill.
About halfway down, Olivia and a group of women flew by me like I was standing still, which snapped me back to reality. I summoned whatever I had left and cranked up the last rise to the finish. As I got out of the saddle to do a mock sprint to the line, my quads cramped up so badly I had to sit back down. Just that kind of day.
So while I certainly didn't crush it, and my initial strategy went horribly, horribly wrong, I did manage to finish myself a big-ass helping of Copperopolis. To paraphrase The Clash: "I've been beat up, I've been shown up, but I'm not down." I'll be back.
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