Sunday, March 18, 2007
Bariani Zamora Road Race: Cat 4 update
Pretty country out there in Zamora. Rolling green hills, lotsa sheep and cows lolling in the fields looking pleased to be alive. As were Nick and I, as we did a warm up lap talking it all in.
Funny how pleasant cycling can be. Unless of course, you're an idiot and race bikes. Speaking of which, congrats to Dolce Donald, who rode his first bike race today and scored in the top 15 of the Masters 45+. We also ran into Marc Foose in the parking lot, who came away with the KOM title in the 3s.
It was clear the start of our race, the 4s, was going to be a disaster. People were wedged in all kinds of weird angles, half in the driveway of the parking lot, some in the ditch on the right, some backed up the road on the left. Basicall 100 guys talking three angles all trying to zero in on the same line.
It was also disconcerting to see what seemd to be barely pubescent children in our group. There was one kid who looked all of thirteen, about 4 feet tall, esentially a hobbit. I was tempted to lean over and say, "Frodo, I will help you take the ring to Mordor." I was also wondering why this child would be in a race with a 37 year old man and exactly who was picking on who here.
Anyway, we roll out, everyone runs into each other, a guy clips out, puts his foot down and I thought 20 guys were going to drop within 10 feet of the start line. Predictably, we then all have to sprint to catch up with the field.
What I've found to be interesting about the 4s is that everybody has gotten smart enough to want to be near the front. But what I've also learned is that unless you are right at the front, there is still intense yoyo'ing in a condensed pack. The last two races, at least early in the race I've found its sometimes better to ride right off the back with a nice regular cadence rather than deal with all the endless braking, accelarating, breaking, accelerating with the "Whoooahah, SLOOOOOOWING!!", "DUDE, GET OFF THE BREAKS," "AHHAHHGHHGGHH' etc.
In any event, that's where I am. Until we get to the KOM hill, when I move pretty far up the pack. Then everyone reintigrates and I find myself piddling along at the back again.
The second lap, as we are making a hard, 90 degree right onto a small country road, everyone starts breaking frantically as the enter the apex of the turn. From my brilliant vantage point, DEAD LAST, I can see what looks to be a massive pile up in the making. What the? Turns out there is a GIANT tractor about 50 yards inside the turn taking up at least half the road. Minor miracle millions weren't killed.
Some evil tactical genius figures: Perfect time to attack. So the pack is strung out until the KOM hill where we really go hard. Luciano Sporza, who is one helluva bike racer, has gone off the front and there is hard attempt to pull him in. No deal. He is off the front. Good for you. I'm crosseyed at the top of the hill and wonder how I'm going to survive 3 more laps.
Lap three is the real winner. Nick has joined me at the back and we are having a nice little time, reminiscing about the nice Barola we drank with the wives on Friday night. Bike racing doesn't seem so bad. People are suffering at the front, we are laughing among the bright green hills. La lalala, springtime is so green... D'OH.
In front of us carnage. Why? No reason. But bodies are all over the road. I lock it up by reflex and am starting to skid sideways. I hear someone's tire explode, I am about to run into either a guy on my left or bodies in front, when all of a sudden a lane opens, I release the brakes and am through the hole. Somehow, there is a guy climbing out of ditch on the other side of the road (here the center rule is in the effect). I see his sunglasses lying in the road. There is the smell of burned rubber.
I look back and see Nick getting back on his bike. We are dropped. Right at the base of a roller. We are essentially at a dead stop. I start pedaling and wait for Nick to latch on and drill it over the hill. We burn a match but catch back on. Right in time for Squadra's attack. Props to SqOv. Those guys rode a bike race today. They were on the front a lot and driving some hard tempo, stringing out the field. I later find out our pal Bob has launched a break and this is why I'm drooling over my entrails trying to recover from the effort to latch back on and now this new, unwelcome pain.
By the third time after over the hill, the field of 100 seems to number about 50. I am a shattered wreck and want to go home and drink Barolo. Two more laps seem absurd. But they go. And I realize everyone now is tired. The big selections are made. The 4th and 5th laps go without much notice, except that Sporza is reeled back in at the base of the KOM hill on lap 4. He had this smile as re-joined and I felt sure he was going to attack again and was only playing with we mortals.
Then, within a few miles of the finish, Nick cramps up and has to bail. He communes with a sheep and some bees, apparently engaging conversationlists when you are stuck along the side of a country road with legs full of knotted, lactic-soaked muscles.
I ride up to Sporza and ask him if he is going to attack again. No, he says, he is cooked. Right then there is some minor mayhem ahead of us and some guy rides off the road into the grass. Sporza says, "He should have maybe stayed home and watched basketball." I thought that was pretty good, especially because he said it with an Italian accent.
We hit the KOM hill for the final time. I hurt myself and go deep to move up as far as a can. Poor little Frodo explodes, but damn, that kid rode a great race.
There is a hard right and then a long straight before another 90 degree turn that leads to the finish. The pace is pretty high, ok really high, and guys are flying off the back. I manage to hang on. As I enter the last corner I hear the explosion of a tire and the sound of expensive brake levers getting sanded down by asphalt. (I later find out the guy right behind me had his tire inexplicably blow out... He walked to the finish line with a bare rim and some road rash, otherwise unhurt despite the speed he must have touched foor.)
I am cooked and move up a few places, finishing at the back of the lead group in another dazzling top 30 performance.
I cooled down a bit and circled back to the finish to see Nick cross the line, hands clapping in mock celebration to the amusement of onlookers. We gave it what we had today. Whaddya gonna do.
We raced home and managed to catch the exciting finale of Paris-Nice. A great win for Contador and a hair-raising descent to the finale, showing me why I don't aspire to race bikes professionally. You know, aside from the talent issue.
Funny how pleasant cycling can be. Unless of course, you're an idiot and race bikes. Speaking of which, congrats to Dolce Donald, who rode his first bike race today and scored in the top 15 of the Masters 45+. We also ran into Marc Foose in the parking lot, who came away with the KOM title in the 3s.
It was clear the start of our race, the 4s, was going to be a disaster. People were wedged in all kinds of weird angles, half in the driveway of the parking lot, some in the ditch on the right, some backed up the road on the left. Basicall 100 guys talking three angles all trying to zero in on the same line.
It was also disconcerting to see what seemd to be barely pubescent children in our group. There was one kid who looked all of thirteen, about 4 feet tall, esentially a hobbit. I was tempted to lean over and say, "Frodo, I will help you take the ring to Mordor." I was also wondering why this child would be in a race with a 37 year old man and exactly who was picking on who here.
Anyway, we roll out, everyone runs into each other, a guy clips out, puts his foot down and I thought 20 guys were going to drop within 10 feet of the start line. Predictably, we then all have to sprint to catch up with the field.
What I've found to be interesting about the 4s is that everybody has gotten smart enough to want to be near the front. But what I've also learned is that unless you are right at the front, there is still intense yoyo'ing in a condensed pack. The last two races, at least early in the race I've found its sometimes better to ride right off the back with a nice regular cadence rather than deal with all the endless braking, accelarating, breaking, accelerating with the "Whoooahah, SLOOOOOOWING!!", "DUDE, GET OFF THE BREAKS," "AHHAHHGHHGGHH' etc.
In any event, that's where I am. Until we get to the KOM hill, when I move pretty far up the pack. Then everyone reintigrates and I find myself piddling along at the back again.
The second lap, as we are making a hard, 90 degree right onto a small country road, everyone starts breaking frantically as the enter the apex of the turn. From my brilliant vantage point, DEAD LAST, I can see what looks to be a massive pile up in the making. What the? Turns out there is a GIANT tractor about 50 yards inside the turn taking up at least half the road. Minor miracle millions weren't killed.
Some evil tactical genius figures: Perfect time to attack. So the pack is strung out until the KOM hill where we really go hard. Luciano Sporza, who is one helluva bike racer, has gone off the front and there is hard attempt to pull him in. No deal. He is off the front. Good for you. I'm crosseyed at the top of the hill and wonder how I'm going to survive 3 more laps.
Lap three is the real winner. Nick has joined me at the back and we are having a nice little time, reminiscing about the nice Barola we drank with the wives on Friday night. Bike racing doesn't seem so bad. People are suffering at the front, we are laughing among the bright green hills. La lalala, springtime is so green... D'OH.
In front of us carnage. Why? No reason. But bodies are all over the road. I lock it up by reflex and am starting to skid sideways. I hear someone's tire explode, I am about to run into either a guy on my left or bodies in front, when all of a sudden a lane opens, I release the brakes and am through the hole. Somehow, there is a guy climbing out of ditch on the other side of the road (here the center rule is in the effect). I see his sunglasses lying in the road. There is the smell of burned rubber.
I look back and see Nick getting back on his bike. We are dropped. Right at the base of a roller. We are essentially at a dead stop. I start pedaling and wait for Nick to latch on and drill it over the hill. We burn a match but catch back on. Right in time for Squadra's attack. Props to SqOv. Those guys rode a bike race today. They were on the front a lot and driving some hard tempo, stringing out the field. I later find out our pal Bob has launched a break and this is why I'm drooling over my entrails trying to recover from the effort to latch back on and now this new, unwelcome pain.
By the third time after over the hill, the field of 100 seems to number about 50. I am a shattered wreck and want to go home and drink Barolo. Two more laps seem absurd. But they go. And I realize everyone now is tired. The big selections are made. The 4th and 5th laps go without much notice, except that Sporza is reeled back in at the base of the KOM hill on lap 4. He had this smile as re-joined and I felt sure he was going to attack again and was only playing with we mortals.
Then, within a few miles of the finish, Nick cramps up and has to bail. He communes with a sheep and some bees, apparently engaging conversationlists when you are stuck along the side of a country road with legs full of knotted, lactic-soaked muscles.
I ride up to Sporza and ask him if he is going to attack again. No, he says, he is cooked. Right then there is some minor mayhem ahead of us and some guy rides off the road into the grass. Sporza says, "He should have maybe stayed home and watched basketball." I thought that was pretty good, especially because he said it with an Italian accent.
We hit the KOM hill for the final time. I hurt myself and go deep to move up as far as a can. Poor little Frodo explodes, but damn, that kid rode a great race.
There is a hard right and then a long straight before another 90 degree turn that leads to the finish. The pace is pretty high, ok really high, and guys are flying off the back. I manage to hang on. As I enter the last corner I hear the explosion of a tire and the sound of expensive brake levers getting sanded down by asphalt. (I later find out the guy right behind me had his tire inexplicably blow out... He walked to the finish line with a bare rim and some road rash, otherwise unhurt despite the speed he must have touched foor.)
I am cooked and move up a few places, finishing at the back of the lead group in another dazzling top 30 performance.
I cooled down a bit and circled back to the finish to see Nick cross the line, hands clapping in mock celebration to the amusement of onlookers. We gave it what we had today. Whaddya gonna do.
We raced home and managed to catch the exciting finale of Paris-Nice. A great win for Contador and a hair-raising descent to the finale, showing me why I don't aspire to race bikes professionally. You know, aside from the talent issue.
Labels: Bariana road race, cycling bay area, dolce vita cycling, Zamora road race
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