My Buddy
There's a guy I ride with now and again, and over the years he's been someone to look up to, a performance touchstone, and a cautionary tale for me. Let's just call him Pete, because that's his name.
I first met Pete when I started racing. At the time, he was at the top of the heap of the lowest level class of our podunk road racing league. Since I was right at the bottom of that class, being on his level was all I aspired to. The higher classes were just on another planet for a obese, middle-aged bike flogger like me. Pete was also welcoming to the new guy, mostly because I was no threat to his domination of kiddie pool.
The more I shed weight and raced that year, the more I found I was able to hang with the big kids. Like most new racers, my biggest asset was my ability to diesel. I could grind at a meager pace for a long time. I couldn't climb. I couldn't sprint. I had no tactical sense whatsoever. I'd just ride as hard as I could and eventually some of the weaker riders would fall away. By the time the season's apex point hit at the Tour of Anchorage (TOA), I was feeling good about my chances of not being the Lanterne Rouge.
When the dust cleared, I ended up on the 3rd step of the podium. Pete was there at the top, minutes ahead of me and holding a one-way ticket to the next class. Since we never had any real upgrade/downgrade guidelines other than winning your class at the TOA, I was fine sandbagging for another year and building my store of glories that I would need to rely on during the years of failures ahead. I was a little intimidated by the next class, and was dipping Pete into the pool of sharks to see how the water was.
The next year Pete mixed up it with the big boys while I continued relying on my diesel. He got stronger while I rode like a triathlete. However, he showed me that I wouldn't get completely destroyed when I made the jump. This was fortunate, because with a class win in the TOA that year (entirely based on meager TT skills), I had my own ticket to the bigs. Now and then during that season, Pete and I would get together and ride. He was playing the bachelor, and had a pretty much open schedule and time to train. He'd stomp me up climbs and generally reinforce the status quo between us, but I was starting to narrow the gap.
In the off-season (that I like to call ski season), I fielded our impressive resumes around to every team in town. Both of them. While one delivered a clear, "not only no, but..." answer to my persistent pestering, the Speedway team took us on- probably as comedic relief. Their willingness to laugh at our ineptitude over the years has earned my undying gratitude. I also hired Janice Tower as my coach, figuring she could help me fill all those winter hours that I had previously reserved for Twinkie eating. Pete continued with his off-season program of spin classes at the base gym ("ok, visualize the hill and crank up the tension...").
When the season rolled around, I actually placed well in the early-season races. Most of this I attribute to the other racers following my Twinkie training plan and then slowly riding into shape. I was faster than Pete, but I figured it was because I invested the GNP of several small Central American countries into my carbon collection. Our rides usually ended up with us taking turns making the other suffer. Neither one of us sniffed the podium of the TOA that year, but we did fairly well in a handful of lesser races. By lesser, I mean fields that could be counted on one hand with fingers to spare. Still, we were hanging in there and filling out the field.
Around this time Pete started attacking at odd times. Since our racing class utilized highly- sophisticated racing tactics at the time, every breakaway was immediately chased down- no matter how likely it was to succeed. If I tried to calm the field and convinced a few guys to let him hang in the wind, the rest would immediately take up the chase and drag the field along, closing that 5 second gap he had worked so hard to open. Pete was racing, and the rest of us were just riding tempo and letting time trials and hill climbs determine the outcome. I don't think he ever succeeded in opening a break, but he tried. Usually races were decided by the fastest guys grinding away from the pack as everyone flailed in their wake, rather than any one explosive effort to open a gap. I cautioned him to conserve his energy for later in the race, as he was starting to finish further and further back, but Pete would attack in the early parts of the race before he eventually blew up and went out the back.
Since I was slowly getting the upper hand in our balance of power and because I loaned him a bike when his broke, I started to refer to Pete as my personal domestique. I explained to Pete that he was required to shield me from the wind and fetch me water bottles from Bjarne back in the team car. Post-races massages were negotiable. The reality of our arrangement turned out to be that Pete attacked and I ended up chasing him down so I could chastise him. In retrospect, it beats the tedium of riding tempo until another sprint finish where I finish 4th.
Then Pete's wife moved up to Alaska, and his available time for road miles took a significant hit. His midsection also took a hit, judging by the swelling that occurred once his wife started cooking for him. Poor guy. Then the former empty-nester's granddaughter moved in for an extended stay, and suddenly Pete wasn't training or racing so much anymore. I thought he would have been terribly depressed about the rotten hand life had dealt him, but for some reason the guy actually seems happy. This led me to a hypothesis that wives and children lead to early-onset Alzheimer’s. I back up this theory with my own weight gain and performance drop as family responsibilities increased. I'm hoping rich donors will fund my study, thus enabling me to buy more carbon before I forget why I want it in the first place.
Saturday Pete and I rode together for the first time in a while. Now it was me soft-pedaling or waiting at the tops of climbs, which does wonders for my ego and perception that the half-hearted training attempts of this winter were starting to bear fruit. Boosting my fragile ego is an absolutely critical responsibility for any domestique, so I guess I should call any perceived debt square between us.
Maybe I won't chase him down and berate him this year, and let the slobbering masses do my dirty work for me. I probably should, because eventually he'll start stomping on me again and right the balance of power.
I need to stay on his good side or I'll end up his domestique, and massages might not be negotiable.
I first met Pete when I started racing. At the time, he was at the top of the heap of the lowest level class of our podunk road racing league. Since I was right at the bottom of that class, being on his level was all I aspired to. The higher classes were just on another planet for a obese, middle-aged bike flogger like me. Pete was also welcoming to the new guy, mostly because I was no threat to his domination of kiddie pool.
The more I shed weight and raced that year, the more I found I was able to hang with the big kids. Like most new racers, my biggest asset was my ability to diesel. I could grind at a meager pace for a long time. I couldn't climb. I couldn't sprint. I had no tactical sense whatsoever. I'd just ride as hard as I could and eventually some of the weaker riders would fall away. By the time the season's apex point hit at the Tour of Anchorage (TOA), I was feeling good about my chances of not being the Lanterne Rouge.
When the dust cleared, I ended up on the 3rd step of the podium. Pete was there at the top, minutes ahead of me and holding a one-way ticket to the next class. Since we never had any real upgrade/downgrade guidelines other than winning your class at the TOA, I was fine sandbagging for another year and building my store of glories that I would need to rely on during the years of failures ahead. I was a little intimidated by the next class, and was dipping Pete into the pool of sharks to see how the water was.
The next year Pete mixed up it with the big boys while I continued relying on my diesel. He got stronger while I rode like a triathlete. However, he showed me that I wouldn't get completely destroyed when I made the jump. This was fortunate, because with a class win in the TOA that year (entirely based on meager TT skills), I had my own ticket to the bigs. Now and then during that season, Pete and I would get together and ride. He was playing the bachelor, and had a pretty much open schedule and time to train. He'd stomp me up climbs and generally reinforce the status quo between us, but I was starting to narrow the gap.
In the off-season (that I like to call ski season), I fielded our impressive resumes around to every team in town. Both of them. While one delivered a clear, "not only no, but..." answer to my persistent pestering, the Speedway team took us on- probably as comedic relief. Their willingness to laugh at our ineptitude over the years has earned my undying gratitude. I also hired Janice Tower as my coach, figuring she could help me fill all those winter hours that I had previously reserved for Twinkie eating. Pete continued with his off-season program of spin classes at the base gym ("ok, visualize the hill and crank up the tension...").
When the season rolled around, I actually placed well in the early-season races. Most of this I attribute to the other racers following my Twinkie training plan and then slowly riding into shape. I was faster than Pete, but I figured it was because I invested the GNP of several small Central American countries into my carbon collection. Our rides usually ended up with us taking turns making the other suffer. Neither one of us sniffed the podium of the TOA that year, but we did fairly well in a handful of lesser races. By lesser, I mean fields that could be counted on one hand with fingers to spare. Still, we were hanging in there and filling out the field.
Around this time Pete started attacking at odd times. Since our racing class utilized highly- sophisticated racing tactics at the time, every breakaway was immediately chased down- no matter how likely it was to succeed. If I tried to calm the field and convinced a few guys to let him hang in the wind, the rest would immediately take up the chase and drag the field along, closing that 5 second gap he had worked so hard to open. Pete was racing, and the rest of us were just riding tempo and letting time trials and hill climbs determine the outcome. I don't think he ever succeeded in opening a break, but he tried. Usually races were decided by the fastest guys grinding away from the pack as everyone flailed in their wake, rather than any one explosive effort to open a gap. I cautioned him to conserve his energy for later in the race, as he was starting to finish further and further back, but Pete would attack in the early parts of the race before he eventually blew up and went out the back.
Since I was slowly getting the upper hand in our balance of power and because I loaned him a bike when his broke, I started to refer to Pete as my personal domestique. I explained to Pete that he was required to shield me from the wind and fetch me water bottles from Bjarne back in the team car. Post-races massages were negotiable. The reality of our arrangement turned out to be that Pete attacked and I ended up chasing him down so I could chastise him. In retrospect, it beats the tedium of riding tempo until another sprint finish where I finish 4th.
Then Pete's wife moved up to Alaska, and his available time for road miles took a significant hit. His midsection also took a hit, judging by the swelling that occurred once his wife started cooking for him. Poor guy. Then the former empty-nester's granddaughter moved in for an extended stay, and suddenly Pete wasn't training or racing so much anymore. I thought he would have been terribly depressed about the rotten hand life had dealt him, but for some reason the guy actually seems happy. This led me to a hypothesis that wives and children lead to early-onset Alzheimer’s. I back up this theory with my own weight gain and performance drop as family responsibilities increased. I'm hoping rich donors will fund my study, thus enabling me to buy more carbon before I forget why I want it in the first place.
Saturday Pete and I rode together for the first time in a while. Now it was me soft-pedaling or waiting at the tops of climbs, which does wonders for my ego and perception that the half-hearted training attempts of this winter were starting to bear fruit. Boosting my fragile ego is an absolutely critical responsibility for any domestique, so I guess I should call any perceived debt square between us.
Maybe I won't chase him down and berate him this year, and let the slobbering masses do my dirty work for me. I probably should, because eventually he'll start stomping on me again and right the balance of power.
I need to stay on his good side or I'll end up his domestique, and massages might not be negotiable.
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