The First Race Season

I rolled into my first season on fire. No, that's a complete lie. I oozed in, after a winter of not riding and eating too much. I was 5-10 pounds heavier than in the fall, and when I lined up for the first time trial of the year, I had maybe 30 miles under my tires. The snow had barely cleared off of the pavement, and the temperatures were hovering in the high 30s. This being Alaska, we have a compressed schedule dictated by the seasons. When there's clear pavement, we race.
 
The first race of the season is never the fastest race. After a long winter, nobody is on top form. The smart ones mitigate it by riding the trainer or on fatbikes, or taking part in aerobic activities to maintain some sort of fitness. I, on the other hand, spent the winter alpine skiing and eating McDonalds, expecting that I could pick up exactly where I left off. I was in for a rude awakening.
 
I was over 3 minutes slower over the same course that I had done for my first race. On the bright side, I was still in the middle of my class, and only three and a half minutes slower than the class winner (but 11 minutes behind the overall winner). Still glacially slow.
 
I bounced up and down the lower half of the results page as I cherry-picked time trials (I had the stupid bike, so I was determined to use it). I did a 40k TT into a 40MPH headwind, and felt fortunate to finish at all. I did a hill climb and nearly blacked out (gravity hates fatties). I rode more often and further than I ever had before, hoping that what I was doing would somehow translate into better performance. I lost a little more weight, and decided to enter the Tour of Anchorage, which to me seemed like an impossible feat to complete, much less be competitive in. My results thus far indicated that I would be lucky to be pack fodder.
 
The first stage of the Tour of Anchorage is the Prologue time trial. It's a short, 5 mile course that is actually part of my commute to work, so I knew it well. I completely surprised myself by finishing 3rd on the stage, about 30 seconds down on the class winner. I was happy to be with the "fast guys", but expected to be left behind on the next stage.
 
I had never done a mass-start race before, and went into the second stage with the sole goal of hanging on as long as possible before I was dropped. Oh me and my pie-in-the-sky dreams. Fortunately, this year the stage was on some of the flattest pavement in Anchorage, and I was able to stick with the pack and finish just off the podium, which padded my 3rd overall position a bit.
 
The 3rd day of the Tour of Anchorage is always brutal, because there are 2 stages to complete. The first was the same race that I had done one year prior, and I rode my lungs out and finished 2nd. I was starting to have a glimmer of belief that I might actually stand on the podium at the end. I knew I couldn't possibly catch the guys ahead of me, but I was hoping I could hold off the guys behind me.
 
The 4th stage was a hill climb. I decided that I was going to do everything in my meager power to hold onto 3rd, gravity be damned. Of course, the cumulative pounding on my body of the previous stages was taking its toll, but everyone experiences it to some degree. The field was getting smaller as racers dropped out for various reasons, but the guys just behind me were still there. Again I gutted myself and dragged my tired carcass up the hill, finishing 3rd in my class and again solidifying my position. I probably would have considered it worthy of celebration, if I wasn't trying so hard not to puke.
 
The last stage was a circuit race around a dished loop. The race organizers had annouced that lapped riders would be pulled, and would not be awarded a time. For those of us in the whittled-down Beginner Men's pack, this was a bit unfair (not that sports are always fair). To race that long and end up with a DNF just didn't seem right, so we agreed to wait for anyone that had a mechanical or flat, at least until the last couple laps. As it turned out, we did end up waiting on a guy who flatted, who then went on to win the stage (go figure). I rode to a safe 4th place finish, after I did the math on how sprint bonuses would affect the overall. My podium position was secure.
 
The podium finishers of a class during the Tour of Anchorage are usually upgraded on the spot, but since I was well behind first and second place, they didn't make that demand. I would be able to compete in the Beginner Class for another year, which was fine by me, since the Sport Class would have ripped my legs off. I just was not ready. That was the end of my racing season, but I rode until the snow covered the pavement again. Then I hung up the bike and started waxing my skis.

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