The Third Season
If I had any delusions regarding my racing abilities after a long winter in the garage on the trainer, they were soon torn to shreds as the race season started. The bright spot was that I was always right in there at the end. I could match the accelerations of the Sport Men field on anything except hill climbs, which still gave me a lot of trouble.
Unlike the previous year, where I more or less cherry-picked my races, I started entering more and more types. Some were more successful than others, but I figured the intensity of racing was better than just putting along at the same pace all of the time.
I witnessed my first serious crash close-up, and it was not fun. During a criterium at a local school, the Expert and Sport Men fields were combined. Since I had no ambitions and was feeling like trying some stupid, I rode off the front of the field with another racer a couple times, just to see what would happen. We were dragged back within a couple laps both times, so I settled into a mid-pack position and tried to conserve my energy for the late-race surges that I knew were coming. Just when I was finding my groove, the two riders in front of me came together in a corner and one of them went down hard. I was barely able to dodge the body and bike, which was amazing because I was literally inches away from their rear wheels when it happened. The pack reformed and continued on, but when we came back around and saw the racer still on the ground, everyone sat up and started riding at a sedate pace. Then the ambulance showed up, and we all packed it in. The heart had gone out of the field, as this was a well-liked and respected racer. When there aren't points or prizes on the line, and all that's there to win are bragging rights, you need to keep things in perspective.
I rolled though the rest of the season, learning a lot about racing and what my strengths and weaknesses were, which was far more valuable to me than a podium spot. I learned the hard way about the effect fueling has on performance, and got my first glimpses of how much recovery would impact my stage race results. As the road season drew to a close, I was happy with the way things turned out, and more motivated than ever to continue my progress.
The road racing season in Anchorage usually runs from mid-April until mid-August. We jam a lot of racing in there, and usually my fitness and motivation is starting to crash by then. However, as some kind of sick joke played by the cycling gods, we have a short series of races in September and October that pack as much pain and suffering into 45 minutes as humanly possible.
Cyclocross is a sport that is a combination of road and mountain cycling, with some running and jumping thrown in there for good measure. The bikes are essentially road bikes with slightly wider, knobby tires. Due to its Northern France/Belgian roots, cold, rain, and mud are thought of as ideal conditions. Your heart rate is pegged for the full duration of the race, and afterwards you find all sorts of cuts and bruises of mysterious origins. It's awesome and awful all at the same time, yet the post-race endorphin rush blocks out all of the painful memories and brings you back for the next race.
Before this season, I had competed in exactly one 'cross race. I lugged my heavy, entry-level 29er over barriers and up run-ups, and decided that was enough for me. Yet, I had just spent a bunch of money to convert that same 29er into a drop-bar, rigid-fork "monstercross" bike. I have no idea why. Money spent, I then was obliged to race the series. I entered the Beginner Class, and did fairly well through the season. I also went over the handlebars several times and ran into a tree, breaking a rib in the process. The sick part is that I continued to race. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug. By the time the season I ended, I had won the category, thus ensuring that I would be back the next year to damage myself again.
The snow held off that year for longer than normal, but I knew my road riding was finished when I rode to work one day on dry roads, then rode home in two inches of snow. A handful of riding days was all I could manage before it was back to the my dark garage and the trainer.
Unlike the previous year, where I more or less cherry-picked my races, I started entering more and more types. Some were more successful than others, but I figured the intensity of racing was better than just putting along at the same pace all of the time.
I witnessed my first serious crash close-up, and it was not fun. During a criterium at a local school, the Expert and Sport Men fields were combined. Since I had no ambitions and was feeling like trying some stupid, I rode off the front of the field with another racer a couple times, just to see what would happen. We were dragged back within a couple laps both times, so I settled into a mid-pack position and tried to conserve my energy for the late-race surges that I knew were coming. Just when I was finding my groove, the two riders in front of me came together in a corner and one of them went down hard. I was barely able to dodge the body and bike, which was amazing because I was literally inches away from their rear wheels when it happened. The pack reformed and continued on, but when we came back around and saw the racer still on the ground, everyone sat up and started riding at a sedate pace. Then the ambulance showed up, and we all packed it in. The heart had gone out of the field, as this was a well-liked and respected racer. When there aren't points or prizes on the line, and all that's there to win are bragging rights, you need to keep things in perspective.
I rolled though the rest of the season, learning a lot about racing and what my strengths and weaknesses were, which was far more valuable to me than a podium spot. I learned the hard way about the effect fueling has on performance, and got my first glimpses of how much recovery would impact my stage race results. As the road season drew to a close, I was happy with the way things turned out, and more motivated than ever to continue my progress.
The road racing season in Anchorage usually runs from mid-April until mid-August. We jam a lot of racing in there, and usually my fitness and motivation is starting to crash by then. However, as some kind of sick joke played by the cycling gods, we have a short series of races in September and October that pack as much pain and suffering into 45 minutes as humanly possible.
Cyclocross is a sport that is a combination of road and mountain cycling, with some running and jumping thrown in there for good measure. The bikes are essentially road bikes with slightly wider, knobby tires. Due to its Northern France/Belgian roots, cold, rain, and mud are thought of as ideal conditions. Your heart rate is pegged for the full duration of the race, and afterwards you find all sorts of cuts and bruises of mysterious origins. It's awesome and awful all at the same time, yet the post-race endorphin rush blocks out all of the painful memories and brings you back for the next race.
Before this season, I had competed in exactly one 'cross race. I lugged my heavy, entry-level 29er over barriers and up run-ups, and decided that was enough for me. Yet, I had just spent a bunch of money to convert that same 29er into a drop-bar, rigid-fork "monstercross" bike. I have no idea why. Money spent, I then was obliged to race the series. I entered the Beginner Class, and did fairly well through the season. I also went over the handlebars several times and ran into a tree, breaking a rib in the process. The sick part is that I continued to race. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug. By the time the season I ended, I had won the category, thus ensuring that I would be back the next year to damage myself again.
The snow held off that year for longer than normal, but I knew my road riding was finished when I rode to work one day on dry roads, then rode home in two inches of snow. A handful of riding days was all I could manage before it was back to the my dark garage and the trainer.
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