Racin' hard, throwin' down

I have an occasion to look back on some of my races and in retrospect, be slightly embarrassed about the manner in which I rode.
This morning seems to be one of those occasions.
Last night, I went to race the Wednesday night NashvilleCyclist crit at LP field-my second night of racing this course in three weeks. The previous encounter with the race left me unsatisfied. I'd come tired, having trained in the morning and was at the tail end of three hard weeks of training and racing. I felt that I'd underperformed; that I hadn't put my best foot forward to the hometown racers.
I thought this week would be the chance to redeem myself.
I went last night with confidence brimming over after my morning ride left me feeling energized and powerful-I felt like there was no chain on my bike, like I could pedal for hours and that amazing connection with the bike you're only gifted on rare occasions.
I arrived about an hour before the race, used the restroom, got myself registered and started to warm-up.
I was still feeling great.
Feeling great, like your legs have all the power in the world, like you can turn, sprint, hammer whatever you want, can be a curse. Those are the times you're most likely to ride without a brain because you feel invincible.
When we lined up a little late after waiting anxiously while several riders from the B race who crashed in the third corner of the last lap were attended to by the medical staff. Basically the first rider into the corner either clipped a pedal, or just plain pushed it too hard, lowsided it into the curb and the next two riders crashed on top of/over him. The third guy down was the worst off, landing on his head and breaking his helmet. It's a sight that, as racers, none of us want to see; look at a crash too long and you can start to get the fear of crashing into your head, start thinking about the pain, the skin searing on pavement, the blood, the bones...all the things that can happen. I have a little touch of it myself right now, but the past few weeks have been helpful in shaking it. The last time I had it as bad as I have it now was after I crashed at the NC state crit in Cary. I was riding tubulars in the rain, pushing it hard in the corners. I came through a downhill, right hand off-camber corner (imagine reverse banking). The rear wheel slipped, I corrected and got it back upright-but something was wrong...the bike was fishtailing. The front wheel locked, turned to the left and threw me high-side, turned broadwise to the road, skidding across the pavement with my bike between me and the field. Most everyone rode away from where I was skidding-one rider tried to make it between me and the fast-approaching curb. He ended up running smack over my rear wheel and flying over me. I was lucky the bike took the hit. The came away with some pretty standard road rash and a big hematoma on my hip from the catapult onto the pavement. The road rash went away, but the hip stayed pain stayed with me for months..and subsequently, so did thoughts of the crash. I think it took me the better part of a year to regain my confidence through corners after that race. I still don't take off-cambers as aggressively as I once did, but I've forced myself into the situation purposely in practice many, many times so I've gained a degree of control over my anxiety. I'm trying for the same now. When you're going well, you don't have thoughts about the potential consequences of racing; you move through the field like you own it, taking positions, cornering hard, riding hard boy.
Those are the best days.
Last night was one of those days.
When we finally started, I moved closer to the front than I usually like to at the start of a crit. Normally, I like to sit in the top 1/4 or so, close enough to mark any move that I think might actually be dangerous, but far enough that I can sit in while the first lap heroes wear themselves out trying to set the pace. After having seen the break roll in the first three laps last time, I thought discretion would be the better part of valor.
Two guys rolled off before the first corner.
I didn't think one of them was of particular concern, but the other had 10 or so teammates in the field which means any move they make, despite the abilities of the individual rider who actually makes it, is dangerous. After the field allowed them to roll almost 500 meters off, I decided it was getting a bit dangerous. I moved to the front and started to pull it back. I must have rolled 4 or 5 laps on the front before I closed the gap down to about 50 meters. I felt like I was freaking flying, and when I looked down at the powertap, the only numbers I were 350 or higher. I was going well, really well.
When the gap gets close, it the best moment to either try and jump across and join the break-if you think it will stick-or jump across, pass the break and attack immediately from there. Having pulled so long, I was in a position of weakness at the moment, and I knew it. I tried to pull back off and let someone else pull, but I found myself trailed by only the light blue jerseys of the largest team; I was stuck riding the front, and it was quickly becoming apparent that I was a marked rider, and apparently one that they were not going to help under any circumstance.
So I pulled.
When we got with 30 meters, the attack I knew was coming went. It was their stud rider with another strong man in tow.
Damn.
I knew I wasn't in a great position to try and chase, but I thought maybe the other team who was in attendance might be willing to pull it back since they had no man in the move, or at least one of the other riders without teammates might want to lend a hand.
I was wrong.
I sat in the field and watched the pair of riders drift away. I started to get a bit antsy. I didn't want to let the race get away from me. I thought about the lesson I learned the race prior, when I decided that I could take 16 other riders myself. I knew that I had decided that wasn't a good idea, I knew that if I started trying to beat everyone on my own I'd be in a bad way.
Ahh, screw it.
I went to the front and started to pull again. I rode and rode and rode and rode. I felt incredibly strong. I'd look back every now and then and see the field strung out coming from each corner. I stood up and pounded the straights. I started to see riders who had blown off the back of the field coming up ahead of me. Guys were coming off in bunches. I was driving them off. It felt good. There were attacks. Guys shot off individually and in groups of two or three. I never really responded, just kept up my pace. They would gain 100 meters, then I would reel them in through a corner, or on a big dig in a straightaway.
Then it started again.
I started to feel my bronchial tube closing. I reached for my inhaler, disgusted and frustrated that my body was betraying me. I could feel my legs burning with the lactic acid now building due to the lack of oxygen. The damn cap was on. I grabbed it in my mouth and spat it away off the course. I took a quick hit off the inhaler before we came into the second corner, a fast double apex. I slid back in the field while I waited for the effects to take hold. It seemed like forever before I noticed my breathing was becoming less labored. The good news was that I wasn't spit out of the field while I wheezed an coughed, terrified that the attack wouldn't clear, that I'd be spit out of the back of another race...in Nashville.
In my mind, were it to happen, I could hear other racers talking about me, saying, "Did you see how hard he went out and blew himself up? Couldn't even finish the race. What an idiot.".
I kept pedaling.
After a few minutes, I started to feel the albuterol acting. The weird thing about the asthma medication, at least for me, is that even when it starts to work it's still not like normal. If you know the feeling of having water caught in your throat after it goes down the wrong way while you're drinking, you know what "effective" asthma medicine feels like for me. In reality, the total time of the initial asthma problem was maybe 3-5 minutes, maybe 2 laps, but it's enough time for a break to put real distance into a field.
As I started to breathe again, I moved back toward the front of the field. I started to pull again, but this time, I knew the pull wasn't quite as hard. I could see it in the numbers. I was staying around 300, but I was dipping under it too. No one was coming around again, so I guess it was still hard enough. While I had been idling in the field, trying to catch my breath, literally, a break of three had rolled away from the field and was making a real gap on the field.
I thought, "Well, I guess it's time to go."
After we came out of the second corner (the double apex), the field swept wide on the straight away to set up for the next corner and their speed dropped while the leading rider tried to force someone to come around. I hit the inside with a hard, but not incredible, acceleration.
I rode through the next two corners and started to settle into my effort. The break wasn't too far ahead of me now, maybe a straight-away ahead.
"We've got a gap, keep driving" said a voice from behind me.
I recognized the voice, it was Tim. I didn't really want to drag Tim with. We'd been racing together for the past month, and I knew he was fairly strong.
He was a rider I didn't understand. I ridden in a break with him for 30 miles and he was strong. I ridden a few crits with him, and he was strong. I'd ridden a road race with him, and he was strong (although he got dropped in that race, but before I did). Hell, he was the cat 2 state crit champ.
But there was a young Guatemalan on his team who was stronger, at least that's the logic by which I think Tim was making decisions. What he didn't seem to understand was that only playing the Guatemalan card every race, they were giving observant racers the chance to simply sit in, wait for him to go, stick on his wheel like glue and know it's suddenly like you've gained 10 teammates in the field who are going to mark every move that tries to go across to their show pony. This was too predictable, and although I knew this was their plan, I still managed to screw it up for myself by chasing down their early move (which also could have gone, but not the same way Guatemala could, but given the fact that no one else was willing to do the work, I decided I would do it).
However, I digress,
"I'm having a damn asthma...I can't breathe right. Damn...", I said in response. I couldn't really get a coherent thought out, and to be quite honest, I realized half way through my sentence that no one really cared and I should just shut up and ride.
I pulled Tim and I clear of the field, and we started to close on the three riders ahead. I knew Tim wouldn't be pulling through if I showed any weakness, or desire to take a breather, and more than likely, he would take the free ride on my wheel until we were close enough to the break that he knew he could bridge on his own and then, if he was smart, attack right by them. I knew this, because this is exactly what I would have done if I were in his situation.
Predictably, as soon as we were 30 meters from the group, Tim shot underneath me exiting a corner and went right by the group ahead. Not long after, I made contact with the rear of the group, slowed down to take a break and recover for a moment. I knew Tim couldn't make it out much further than he had the few previous times that he'd attacked and I brought him back, so I was confident in letting him sit out to cook for a few minutes.
After a few meters of respite, I began to pull again. There wasn't more than 8 minutes left in the race, according to my cycling computer.
There was another attack. Two guys rolled away, including one of Tim's teammates. This was not good.
I started to pull harder.
The situation stayed status quo for the next few laps as I slowly closed in on what was now the group of three.
I came with 20 meters of them. Two riders behind me jumped across. I stood up, pounded on the pedals and was quickly on the back of the group of five. The field was still behind me.
Two to go.
I looked up going through the first corner and realized the Guatemalan was coming up on my left. He and his compatriot in the break had lapped the field. This changed the situation. Because they'd reintegrated, we were now on the lead lap, just one down, which meant the next time to the line was the finish. We'd just time warped to the bell-lap.
I was sitting seventh wheel, at this point, behind the Guatemalan and the other lap-up rider. The four guys in front of him
accelerated out of a corner, and he let it drift away. I came underneath him and accelerated through the straight to catch, saying as I went by, "If you're going to reintegrate, fine, just don't come back and let gaps open."
Whenever I make statements out of anger in a race it's always what I really feel in that moment, and to be honest, I probably feel the same way all the time, I normally just have enough self-control to keep my opinions to myself. Every now and then, though, when the conditions are right (I'm tired, already mad or frustrated at some situation or maybe even a specific rider), I lose my cool and say something I shouldn't. I always feel badly later for having done it, but it feels good to have done it in the moment. I can think of twice that I've really lost it and put the fear of God in another rider, both juniors actually. (I know, I shouldn't be the old guy yelling at kids, but it just always seems to be the younger racers who take big chances with everyone else's safety or open their mouths up and try to tell me how to ride my bike).
So, with the gap opening, I decide to chase. Why not, right?
Three turns later, I was on their tail, only this time, it had not been a pretty, even effort. They were shooting for the line, 3-6th places still up for grabs and they were trying to hold the gap and take the spoils. As soon as I was on, around came the field of riders I'd been dragging all night. The last two corners are fast, but if you take them with too many riders, not all at the same speed, or with the same ideas about safety when you're in the back of the field, they can be sketchy.
I sat up.
I was out of the top 6, and to be honest, if there aren't either points of money on the line, I could care less about my placing and I'd rather stay out of harms way.
I think I rode across the line either dead last, or close to it. When the field came by, I realized that while I'd been battling it out with five or seven other guys at the front all night, we'd kept the will of almost 20 other riders in check. There were faces in the race I hadn't seen all night, and they looked dog tired.
That felt good.
As we rode around slowly on the course after the race, I listened as other racers gave their accounts of the race.
"Well, I was up in the break, then I blew. But man, was that a spectacular implosion or what?"
"I was trying to help you and attack, but I don't know, I just didn't have it"
"You need to tell your boy (referring to the Guatemalan, that when he hit the field, he had a gap on the other dude with him in the break. If he'd straight gassed it as he came by, he'd have outright taken the win."
I drifted by conversations, missing the fact normally I'd be joking with Curtis or Daniel right now.
"Man, you were riding hard tonight, I was having trouble holding your wheel at some points." came from my left.
I'd been sitting by Tim and one of his teammates, a 3 I'd met on the start line the first day of the Tour of Ohio, and apparently I was now included in their conversation.
"Me and another guy kept taking shots at you all night," Tim quipped.
"Yeah, I noticed." I said.
"What's wrong with your bike?" Tim asked.
I wasn't really sure what the answer to his question was, as there really are a few things that aren't quite perfect, like the shifting or the knocking when I stand up and pedal hard, or the back wheel that's never quite true. I said something about the shifting, and somewhat trailed off mid-sentence.
"You were taking wide lines through the corners. I hadn't see you do that before, I thought it was maybe to compensate for whatever was wrong," Tim said, obviously becoming more uncomfortable expressing his opinion on what my motivations were as he went on with the sentence.
"I thought it was to close off the other lines," chimed in the teammate.
"More to close the lines," I said, which was totally a lie, but I liked the sound of it, so I agreed. Really I'd just taken wider lines so I could pedal into the turn further, pedal through some of them, and pedal out sooner. It wasn't the shortest distance through the corners, but I could take in the most speed and keep it constant through the turn, eliminating the need to jump out of the other side and keeping my efforts smooth. Mostly it was just a function of pacing out my efforts so that I could stay at the front and go longer.
"All that riding in Ohio seems to be paying off in your form. You're definitely going way better today than just the last time you were out." said the 3 teammate.
"Yeah, Ohio was tough. I was tired last time, coming off a long couple of weeks, and I'd trained that morning," I realized I was starting to sound like a dismissive jerk, "thanks though, I feel like I'm going better."
"Thanks for what?"
"The compliment, I'm not, sorry, I'm bad at them," I said, thinking in my mind that maybe I'd rather sound like a douche than a bumbling idiot.
The talking went on for another few minutes, Tim disappeared at some point.
I'm starting to get the feeling he doesn't like me.
I drove home, calling Curtis and my dad, feeling like I'd really done something that night. I'd taken a race, a race when I had no teammates, and done what I'd failed to do at the road race the weekend before: I imposed my will on it. I decided I wanted to bring moves back, asked for and expected no help, and made it happen. I decided I wanted to set the pace, I made that happen. It felt good to have shown I can ride my bike when I want to ride my bike.
The next morning, however, I started to wonder if what I'd really done was just show that I'm not a smart racer. After all, I'd played right into the hands of the other teams tactics, let their main man go and lap the field, then gone so hard that I didn't contest the sprint finish. Maybe instead of taking it as a show of force, people just thought, "Here's a guy dumb enough to sit on the front and do all the work, so why not let him?"
The more I reflected on it, the more I realized I can't control what other people think, and as much as I'd like for them all to know what I was thinking while I was racing, that I knew full well what I was doing each time was counter productive as far as a placing goes, I can't make anyone else understand my motivations than I can theirs.
Maybe they do think I'm stupid, but no one else seemed to want to race their bike, and I'm damn sure not going to pay $10 to go out and sit in a field in a race that matters not one iota for my season. I think I got my $10 worth of fitness, and more importantly, fun.
I'll save the boring racing for a time that it does matter or when I feel like I'm in a situation when I can't afford to make mistakes because the field will spit me out the back if I go too deep at the wrong time.
Maybe it was a good night after all.