Monday, April 28, 2008
Wente RR report: Donald
The men's 55+ cat 4,5 field was 37 riders, an impressive showing that included some atheletes who are some of Northern CA's best. Our group did 3 laps for 50 miles as opposed to the Cat 1-3 men 55+ who did 4 laps. We started on the flat a bit faster than I predicted. I was holding 3d wheel when 2 riders sprinted from behind and went off the front. I guessed they were trying to put some distance between themselves and the peleton before the climb so they would lose less time during the ascent. I accelerated slightly and pulled them in and within a few minutes the peloton was back together. I stayed 3-6th wheel up the initial ascent until the sharp right when the real climbing begins and continues to the finish line. A group of about 15 riders accelerated to a torrid pace and pulled away from me despite a full on effort on my part to stay attached. By the time we reached the bridge they were 200 yds ahead and when I looked back I saw no one in our group. Being a distant last of the leaders is not comforting. I started riding my time trial. A few slightly negative thoughts entered my mind such as: "this is my last race". I managed to focus on my riding, relaxing my shoulders, keeping streamlined and holding the best pace I could. My heart rate was in the mid 160s, well above SS (153-157). I could see the lead group ahead when the road permitted and I realized they were pulling away from me. But, I could see a few riders had been dropped or they were riders from an earlier group. I persevered thinking I would catch the shelled nuts and hopefully find someone to ride and work with. Then the Cat 3s roared by me and I moved over to the right to let them pass. I knew they would catch the leaders in my category and that they would be neutralized. I persevered. Sure enough, my leaders were neutralized and I caught them before we started the second lap. Again I stayed with them until the steep climb and again I was dropped. This time however, there were 3 other riders who were ahead of me who were also dropped and I gradually realed them in. We rode together and I sucked more wheel than was my share but I was not going to tire myself out. We rode together through the second lap. I looked for but could no longer see the lead group. As we started the third lap I sensed that I was not the weakest rider of the foursome. I was able to do the steep climb with them and as the lap proceded, could close any gap that opened. I decided to continue to suck wheels rather than ride first into the wind. One of the foursome dropped back and could not continue the pace. We three entered the final climb steep section with me in 2d place. I moved forward holding the best pace I could muster to the finish line. I knew my heart rate was over 170 and think it hit 174 (I will have to check my meter). I looked under my arm and one of the others in my threesome was gaining and then passed me slowly. I held on to my pace, the best I could do without exploding. He finished about 20 yds ahead of me and I finished about 100 yds ahead of the 3d rider. I was exausted. I knew I had ridden the best ride I could do that day. I had made no tactical errors, I ate properly, I hydrated properly, I slept well the night before and I was not nearly as nervous as I had been during my prior races. I was just outgunned by better riders (e.g., climbers). I had no sense of my placement when I crossed the finish line. I only knew that I was in the 2d group and was beaten by one rider in the final threesome. When the results were posted I came in 13th of 33 who finished.
Goal 1. To finish in the lead group. Not achieved.
Goal 2. To ride a time trial if dropped and use other riders for the best possible placement I could achieve. Goal Achieved.
Goal 3. To have no negative thoughts. I had them but was able to put them in a pink baloon. Goal ultimately achieved. This is not my last race.
Goal 1. To finish in the lead group. Not achieved.
Goal 2. To ride a time trial if dropped and use other riders for the best possible placement I could achieve. Goal Achieved.
Goal 3. To have no negative thoughts. I had them but was able to put them in a pink baloon. Goal ultimately achieved. This is not my last race.
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.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Good old Snelling
Way to go Handsome Ransom for a Men's 4 podium finish in what was the hardest edition of Snelling I've ridden in the last 4 years. The Diva's also may have scored some top 10s, but more importantly had the foresight to bring some Jameson's for the Dolce parking lot party. And a coupla lads rode their first race ever--congrats.
As for the race, the wind was absurd and after getting caught behind a crash on lap 3 that took down Rich S., I blew myself to tatters trying to catch back on. Too bad for me the hammer came down as that was all happening. I got to watch the long, strung out line slowly unravel as the crosswinds and the pressure from the front below the race apart. I saw the lead group riding away with a Nick, Mac and Ransom in pursuit. I tried to cobble together a echelon with the drooling, smoking wrecks around me but just received the blank, glassy eyed stares of the damned. Oh well, I got what I deserved for having bad legs and bad positioning. It was like watching the defining moments of Roubaix unfold, except I was one of the guys the camera stopped following.
After hanging up the cleats, I had the far more enjoyable time of watching the finishers come in. Not a lot of smiles, just the shaking of heads and blue lips in ashen faces. Yeah, man, the suffering has arrived.
In his post-race interview, "Lex" Luther delivered the quote of the day. On chasing back from the crash and then putting in a herculean effort to bridge up the leaders: "I almost puked and I almost s*** myself." Looking at him after the race, I believe he weren't lying.
That narrowly trumped Megan's winner: "I was hoping to get some action tonight but I think I broke my crotch."
Hell yeah, baby, the season is here!
As for the race, the wind was absurd and after getting caught behind a crash on lap 3 that took down Rich S., I blew myself to tatters trying to catch back on. Too bad for me the hammer came down as that was all happening. I got to watch the long, strung out line slowly unravel as the crosswinds and the pressure from the front below the race apart. I saw the lead group riding away with a Nick, Mac and Ransom in pursuit. I tried to cobble together a echelon with the drooling, smoking wrecks around me but just received the blank, glassy eyed stares of the damned. Oh well, I got what I deserved for having bad legs and bad positioning. It was like watching the defining moments of Roubaix unfold, except I was one of the guys the camera stopped following.
After hanging up the cleats, I had the far more enjoyable time of watching the finishers come in. Not a lot of smiles, just the shaking of heads and blue lips in ashen faces. Yeah, man, the suffering has arrived.
In his post-race interview, "Lex" Luther delivered the quote of the day. On chasing back from the crash and then putting in a herculean effort to bridge up the leaders: "I almost puked and I almost s*** myself." Looking at him after the race, I believe he weren't lying.
That narrowly trumped Megan's winner: "I was hoping to get some action tonight but I think I broke my crotch."
Hell yeah, baby, the season is here!
Labels: snelling 08
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Priorities
As a loving husband, I don't condone this behavior.
But I understand it.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Another year, another Tam victory
By which I mean: I watched it.
Way to suffer to Kevin, Scott, Jamie, Kel-Dawg and Emma... and Steve "King of Pain" Nishamura. The latter, in his endless quest to suffer even more, decided to make it fair and rode the race with his break rubbing to the point you couldn't spin the wheel one revolution. Wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it.
Jess = Punk Rock
C'mon, seriously. Who is more punk rock than Jess?
I just peed myself when I saw this sticker on her bike this morning.
I worship you from afar.
Labels: dolce vita cycling
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
San Ardo Master's 4/5 Race Report
Posted on behalf of Steve Nishamura
Editors note: Steve may have thought he got dead last, but in fact all DVCers came in top 20, after spending most of the day on the sharp end of the race. I'm not sure if our field was a full 50 or not, but I do think we shelled a bunch of people leading out the pack finish. I definitely shelled myself. -McDolce
After returning from the weekend’s race in sunny San Ardo, I had waiting in the mail the 3 hr classic Fellini movie “La Dolce Vita” about a gossip columnist who winds and weaves through a series of endless parties and beautiful women ultimately finding his talents wasted and a bleak, empty, cynical life to look forward to. Hmmm, this got me thinking about the irony of the name of our very own Dolce Vita. After all I had just driven over the dusty plains of Central California at 4 in the morning with Raymond Cogan in tow just praying to find a Starbucks in a strip mall so I could wake up. Then I could have the privilege of 3 hrs of breathing in dessicated cow dung dust before the 3 hr+ return drive with a bloody Raymond moaning beside me. Finally, I’m home beat and stinking like a homeless man to be greeted by my sons who have long ago learned not to ask whether or not I won, rather they ask me more diplomatically “How did you do, Daddy?”
Well, on Saturday when asked the question, I said “dead last”, and quickly qualified this with a “but, I had a great time”. My sons looked at me suspiciously, but they could tell that I meant it. San Ardo was actually a fun race (and I certainly had more fun than Raymond, on his first race back from a fractured wrist, who crashed out hard with the 3s on the first lap and then had to wait over 2 hrs for us to finish). I raced Masters 4/5 with Kiernan, Rich, Jamie, and Steve Ransom. Kiernan’s race plan was simply protect our strong men for the day, Rich and Steve R.; Jamie and I were supposed to chase down breaks, and help string out the pack before the little riser finale sprint. There were 6 or 7 EMC2 guys, and we were the only other major team. A good rider from Kaiser took off at the gun, and gained about a minute on the pack. A couple of small breaks tried to get away, and Steve R. was in a couple of them, and an indication that he was on a good day. Rich dropped his chain and we all dropped back to help him chase back on. Once back together, the pack rode tempo and caught Kaiser on the backstretch leading into sunny, scenic San Ardo. Then on the next lap Kiernan rode strong up to the front on the riser out of San Ardo and I rode up to his wheel and let a gap open. No one came around for a long while. By then Kiernan was 30 secs up and two other guys went up to bridge and I let them go and continued to block on the front, thinking.. “let’s see what happens. Kiernan may be able to go the distance….” Then I saw Kaiser coming up fast and I jumped on his wheel and a Third Pillar Guy (this guy eventually won) was on my wheel and no one else. We were half way to Kiernan’s group and the Kaiser guy looks back and knows that I am not there to help and the third Pillar guy is also just sitting on. Part of me was thinking what if I helped bring these guys up? Then we’re seven with Kiernan and I. I thought of 1 ½ hours of impending pain. Hmmm, better rethink this. This could work, but most likely not, then I remember that my job is to help out Rich and Steve. So, I just stayed put and we drifted back to the pack and soon so were Kiernan and company.
Then a couple of guys jump on a slight downhill and get about 10 secs. I thought a down hill attack on a flat race, what a waste of energy, but then Kaiser goes again and bridges. Then Steve R. goes and then 3rd Pillar and a couple of others, no one chases and all of a sudden the winning break is gone. Good job Steve.
Now, the 3rd lap… protect Rich and get a result in the field sprint. Which is basically what we do. Kiernan goes to the front about 6 miles out….a signal to Jamie and I to start to work. So, DVC goes to the front to pick up the pace and Jamie and I take our turns turning ourselves inside out on the front. By the last pull I’m wasted and I soft pedal in. Up ahead, Jamie and Kiernan lead out Rich who finishes 2nd in the field sprint (good job Rich!) for a 6th place overall and Steve R. gets 2nd in the break away, which ultimately only had 4 riders that went the distance. For the most part, we controlled and animated the race, followed our plan and raced like a team. La Dolce Vita!
Editors note: Steve may have thought he got dead last, but in fact all DVCers came in top 20, after spending most of the day on the sharp end of the race. I'm not sure if our field was a full 50 or not, but I do think we shelled a bunch of people leading out the pack finish. I definitely shelled myself. -McDolce
After returning from the weekend’s race in sunny San Ardo, I had waiting in the mail the 3 hr classic Fellini movie “La Dolce Vita” about a gossip columnist who winds and weaves through a series of endless parties and beautiful women ultimately finding his talents wasted and a bleak, empty, cynical life to look forward to. Hmmm, this got me thinking about the irony of the name of our very own Dolce Vita. After all I had just driven over the dusty plains of Central California at 4 in the morning with Raymond Cogan in tow just praying to find a Starbucks in a strip mall so I could wake up. Then I could have the privilege of 3 hrs of breathing in dessicated cow dung dust before the 3 hr+ return drive with a bloody Raymond moaning beside me. Finally, I’m home beat and stinking like a homeless man to be greeted by my sons who have long ago learned not to ask whether or not I won, rather they ask me more diplomatically “How did you do, Daddy?”
Well, on Saturday when asked the question, I said “dead last”, and quickly qualified this with a “but, I had a great time”. My sons looked at me suspiciously, but they could tell that I meant it. San Ardo was actually a fun race (and I certainly had more fun than Raymond, on his first race back from a fractured wrist, who crashed out hard with the 3s on the first lap and then had to wait over 2 hrs for us to finish). I raced Masters 4/5 with Kiernan, Rich, Jamie, and Steve Ransom. Kiernan’s race plan was simply protect our strong men for the day, Rich and Steve R.; Jamie and I were supposed to chase down breaks, and help string out the pack before the little riser finale sprint. There were 6 or 7 EMC2 guys, and we were the only other major team. A good rider from Kaiser took off at the gun, and gained about a minute on the pack. A couple of small breaks tried to get away, and Steve R. was in a couple of them, and an indication that he was on a good day. Rich dropped his chain and we all dropped back to help him chase back on. Once back together, the pack rode tempo and caught Kaiser on the backstretch leading into sunny, scenic San Ardo. Then on the next lap Kiernan rode strong up to the front on the riser out of San Ardo and I rode up to his wheel and let a gap open. No one came around for a long while. By then Kiernan was 30 secs up and two other guys went up to bridge and I let them go and continued to block on the front, thinking.. “let’s see what happens. Kiernan may be able to go the distance….” Then I saw Kaiser coming up fast and I jumped on his wheel and a Third Pillar Guy (this guy eventually won) was on my wheel and no one else. We were half way to Kiernan’s group and the Kaiser guy looks back and knows that I am not there to help and the third Pillar guy is also just sitting on. Part of me was thinking what if I helped bring these guys up? Then we’re seven with Kiernan and I. I thought of 1 ½ hours of impending pain. Hmmm, better rethink this. This could work, but most likely not, then I remember that my job is to help out Rich and Steve. So, I just stayed put and we drifted back to the pack and soon so were Kiernan and company.
Then a couple of guys jump on a slight downhill and get about 10 secs. I thought a down hill attack on a flat race, what a waste of energy, but then Kaiser goes again and bridges. Then Steve R. goes and then 3rd Pillar and a couple of others, no one chases and all of a sudden the winning break is gone. Good job Steve.
Now, the 3rd lap… protect Rich and get a result in the field sprint. Which is basically what we do. Kiernan goes to the front about 6 miles out….a signal to Jamie and I to start to work. So, DVC goes to the front to pick up the pace and Jamie and I take our turns turning ourselves inside out on the front. By the last pull I’m wasted and I soft pedal in. Up ahead, Jamie and Kiernan lead out Rich who finishes 2nd in the field sprint (good job Rich!) for a 6th place overall and Steve R. gets 2nd in the break away, which ultimately only had 4 riders that went the distance. For the most part, we controlled and animated the race, followed our plan and raced like a team. La Dolce Vita!
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Well played, Onion, well played....
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]