The Difference Between Knowing Something and Doing Something About It

Last night was the first time the Arctic Bike Club ran a criterium at the former Kulis Air National Guard Base. As an Alaska Guardsman, it was weird seeing how it’s changed since the 176^th Wing moved to Elmendorf AFB. I live a couple miles away, but I hadn’t been there since they closed down. At any rate, old Air Force Bases make for fun crit courses. We were running a loop of a little over a half a mile long, on closed roads, with a short hill and some winding turns to make it interesting. After last year, I had asked for new venues and more mass-start events so that racers could get used to pack riding, and the Road Division really stepped up. This course needs to be a regular feature on our calendar.

After the Tour of Fairbanks, I’ve been in kind of a recovery/rebuilding phase, so I wasn’t planning on doing anything spectacular. Get in some good intensity, play around here or there, and have some fun. That’s it. Members of the newly-formed Team Trek Alaska had other ideas. The two riders in question were also the two riders that worked over the field during the Bodenburg race earlier this year, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to anyone who was paying attention. After a couple of attacks, one rider went off the front while the other rode false tempo to slow the pack down. Unfortunately, I was near the back of the field when the move went, but I knew what was going on right away. I waited a couple laps to see who else was paying attention, and when nobody caught on I moved up and started to up the pace. The problem was, every time I pulled off the front, that team mate was right behind me to slow the pack again. I pointed out the situation to several of the riders, and eventually found a couple strong enough and willing to work. The problem was, none of us were strong enough to prevent that one guy from breaking up any organization. 20 minutes into the 40 minute crit, and I pretty much gave up on that tactic. Everyone else was oblivious, gassed, content to ride for 2^nd, or all of the above. I faded back into the field and waited.

Ten more minutes went by, and another racer asked if I was interested in joining him in an attack. Actually, that sounds more conversational than the monosyllables, gestures, and grunts we are capable of during a race. However it was conveyed, I got the message, and on the next time up the small hill I stomped on the pedals, opened a gap, and dropped my intended breakaway mate. I had doomed the break before it had started thanks to my impressive display of stupidity. Knowing I wasn’t strong enough to stay away alone without my own team mate blocking (he’d been dropped earlier) I once again faded back into the pack.

As the final lap started, I worked my way up the line, finding what I thought was a good position for the bunch sprint. I was wrong, and was on the wrong side and boxed in when the final move went. By the time I got clear there was no way I could close the gap, so I settled for a tepid 5^th place result.

That guy off the front? He lapped us by the end, and was comfortably sitting in when we crossed the finish line. It was an impressive display of simple tactics and strong riding. We’ve had a history of strong riding in the Sport field, but not a whole lot of tactical racing. That inexperience means it doesn’t take much to pull the wool over our collective eyes, and that coupled with two of the strongest riders in the field pretty much means the rest of us have been bringing knives to a gun fight. The strategic counter to their race tactics is elegantly simple. Unfortunately, it also requires the right combination of strength and timing to pull off. That isn’t quite so simple. However, it makes riding around in a circle at high speeds while wearing lycra much more interesting.