Polluting the Pond, Tour of Fairbanks Part II
So where was I?...
Ah yes, Day 3.
Saturday was a dual stage day, with the Stage 3 30K time trial in the morning and the Stage 4 road race in the afternoon. After semi-successful TT, I rested up to prepare for a road race that held a certain amount of dread for me. After 30 or so miles of lightly rolling terrain, the course tilted uphill and ended on Cleary Summit. This was the same summit that caused me to nearly black out in a pace line in the 2012 edition. Though I no longer view it as excessively steep or long, I knew the pack dynamics created by the presence of Open/Expert racers would make it a painful experience. The fact that it occurred on a double stage day just made it worse.
While Tyson avoided pushing the pace on the earlier sections of the course, other racers went up the road and the field was determined to bring them back each time. This kept the pace higher than a Masters-only field would have chosen. Once we were within a few miles of the intermediate sprint, I went to the front and put in a measured, moderate effort to close the gap to the rider off the front a bit. This was to keep the surge to a minimum as we approached the sprint so we could absorb the break in time and not snap off any riders. Less than a minute of pulling was all that was required to put him in reach, and I swung off the front and started drifting back. It was at this time that my right calf locked up in an intense cramp and the next guy in line put in a big dig to shut down the breakaway.
Off the front and out the back was not part of my game plan, so I tried to massage my now-useless right leg while pedaling with my weaker left leg. Eventually I got some function back and desperately ground my way back to the tail of the pack. I was done and I knew it, so I stayed in the draft, conserved what I could, and tried to find a happy place. Apparently there aren't any on that stretch of road. When the false flat ended and the final climb started, the Experts went up the road, a skinny Masters racer went with them, a few went off the back, and five of us were in the middle.
I focused on the rider ahead of me, matching their cadence and barely keeping further cramps at bay. Tingles of impending doom were spreading to both legs, but I hung onto Markus and Tom as long as I could. Fairbanks rider (and former competitive dog musher) Chris Knott went through some serious gastric distress and dropped off the pace. I put my head down lower and tried to breathe slowly. At each turn I started picking nice places for my body to fall so they could find me easily afterwards. Tom and Markus kept chugging along, and Tom admitted later that he was surprised I lasted that long. Then I didn't. Near the top I finally cracked and lost a little time. A rider who had been yo-yoing off the back came around me at the last minute with a surge of strength that I couldn't match. I limped to the top and across the line.
I cried a little. Neither leg could support me, so I sat on my bike's top tube, hung my head, and gasped the rasping breaths of the dying. I knew I'd done some damage to my calf by pushing through the cramp to that extent, but I wasn't sure how bad it was. The ride back to the start was all downhill, so I was able to spin lightly to try to keep the muscles loose. On the drive back to Fairbanks I stopped at REI and bought every bit of snake oil they had in stock that remotely claimed to prevent or heal the damage from cramps. I was willing to believe in anything if it helped me recover some function.
At the finish, the timing crew pointed out my salt sideburns that followed my helmet straps. When I finally saw them in the mirror, I was impressed with how thick and luxurious they were and pondered how best to groom them. This sudden facial salt growth was likely partially responsible for my cramping. I had consumed my normal amounts of electrolyte-enhanced drinking stuff crafted by NASA-type dudes, but this time around it wasn't sufficient and I paid for it.
That night I couldn't sleep. Between the toddler sleeping next to me who insisted on kicking my road rash rhythmically and the stabbing pains that shot through my right leg when I shifted position, it was an unpleasant night.
The next day I loaded the car with stiff legs and the knowledge that my race was over. The 5th and final stage was just under 40 miles with the last quarter being on gravel roads and uphill. By the final day of a stage race, nobody is feeling 100%. I wasn't even feeling 10%.
My whole goal for the day was to hang on for dear life during the paved part and the slowly make my way through the dirt to the finish. Through wheel-sucking the likes rarely seen in these parts and ego-centric douchebaggery to avoid giving up a coveted draft, I made it to the dirt. As the pack slowly disintegrated, I tried to work my way up to Tom's wheel. I was almost there when the calf popped again. I drifted back to Markus and Chris and tried to latch on. That ended halfway up a dirt climb when my lower back gave out.
I stopped pedaling.
I put a foot down.
I slowly dragged my leg over the top tube and leaned my body over the bike. I stretched my back and massaged my calf until it was merely throbbing.
I started walking up the hill.
When I got to the flat section at the top, I got on the bike again, put it in a low gear, and pedaled easy. I kept pedaling when I got to the loose and steep sections designed to add insult to injury before the finish. I have no idea why, other than I felt like I had to finish what I started. I crossed the line about 11 minutes after Tyson did. The next guy didn't come in for another 11 minutes. If they were looking for a selective stage, they got it.
I dropped to 6th in GC. It would have been 5th, but the crit penalty fiasco allowed another racer to pass me. Chris dropped from 2nd to 3rd because of the same reason. Markus got edged off the podium when a strong climber took silver, so he got the 4th place position that I had previously believed was my birthright.
Tom, that magnificent sandbagging bastard, outdid us all. Likely upset by losing to Chris in the 1st stage, his stormed back with a dominating time trial and his solid climbing allowed him to win the class with a very comfortable margin.
We limped back in ragged groups to the start for a barbeque. Since I had a long drive back home and needed to be at work early Monday, I didn't hang around for awards. I showered, piled gear randomly in the car, loaded up the family, and started driving. It was 3:00PM and I had been awake since 7:00AM. I was already running on insufficient sleep and fatigue from racing for 4 days. I expected the trip to take 8 hours if we hit the road construction areas just right and rest stops for the baby didn't take too long. My estimation was a tad off.
While we were on the road between Fairbanks and Denali, a wildfire flared from 20 acres to a kabillion square miles in a couple hours, closing the highway between us and Anchorage. If you look at a map of Alaska, there's really two paved highway routes from Fairbanks to Anchorage. The shorter one runs through Denali, the longer one runs east. There are no other north-south routes, and generally once you're on one, you're committed.
We spent some time perusing the overpriced tourist traps in Denali while we reviewed our options, then pressed forward. We were hoping that they would reopen the highway before we got there, but eventually they announced that the road would be closed indefinitely. We were 150 miles and a bunch of construction zones from Fairbanks, so turning around wasn't sounding all that great. The road ahead was closed for the foreseeable future. We took option C.
The Denali Highway is a 135 mile gravel road that runs east to west and connects to the other Anchorage route. I have a bunch of friends that have ridden it on bikes, but I'd never driven it. I did a few quick calculations on gas and worst-case scenarios, then turned left into the great wide nothing. While dusty, the road was well-maintained and the scenery was great. A few widely-scattered lodges and mining camps were the only signs of habitation along the road, and we only saw a handful of other vehicles. By the time we reached pavement again, a thick layer of dust had covered my once sparkling race bikes, turning them white. The windshield had more guts on it than a slaughterhouse floor. The bugs were hitting the glass with such frequency we initially mistook it for rain. We were still over 250 miles from home and it was 10:30PM, eight hours after we left Fairbanks.
Once back on the pavement and in cell service, we learned the fire had grown to biblical proportions. Unlike the bugs, we weren't dead or stuck in traffic, so we congratulated ourselves on the brilliant tactical decision. A quick stop for gas and caffeine in shot form, and we finally reached Anchorage at 3:00AM, 12 long hours after we left Fairbanks and a lifetime since that morning. I pulled the ghost bikes off the back of the car, removed random bags, and passed out in a heap.
Three hours later I got ready for work. It wasn't a good day at work.
Ah yes, Day 3.
Saturday was a dual stage day, with the Stage 3 30K time trial in the morning and the Stage 4 road race in the afternoon. After semi-successful TT, I rested up to prepare for a road race that held a certain amount of dread for me. After 30 or so miles of lightly rolling terrain, the course tilted uphill and ended on Cleary Summit. This was the same summit that caused me to nearly black out in a pace line in the 2012 edition. Though I no longer view it as excessively steep or long, I knew the pack dynamics created by the presence of Open/Expert racers would make it a painful experience. The fact that it occurred on a double stage day just made it worse.
While Tyson avoided pushing the pace on the earlier sections of the course, other racers went up the road and the field was determined to bring them back each time. This kept the pace higher than a Masters-only field would have chosen. Once we were within a few miles of the intermediate sprint, I went to the front and put in a measured, moderate effort to close the gap to the rider off the front a bit. This was to keep the surge to a minimum as we approached the sprint so we could absorb the break in time and not snap off any riders. Less than a minute of pulling was all that was required to put him in reach, and I swung off the front and started drifting back. It was at this time that my right calf locked up in an intense cramp and the next guy in line put in a big dig to shut down the breakaway.
Off the front and out the back was not part of my game plan, so I tried to massage my now-useless right leg while pedaling with my weaker left leg. Eventually I got some function back and desperately ground my way back to the tail of the pack. I was done and I knew it, so I stayed in the draft, conserved what I could, and tried to find a happy place. Apparently there aren't any on that stretch of road. When the false flat ended and the final climb started, the Experts went up the road, a skinny Masters racer went with them, a few went off the back, and five of us were in the middle.
I focused on the rider ahead of me, matching their cadence and barely keeping further cramps at bay. Tingles of impending doom were spreading to both legs, but I hung onto Markus and Tom as long as I could. Fairbanks rider (and former competitive dog musher) Chris Knott went through some serious gastric distress and dropped off the pace. I put my head down lower and tried to breathe slowly. At each turn I started picking nice places for my body to fall so they could find me easily afterwards. Tom and Markus kept chugging along, and Tom admitted later that he was surprised I lasted that long. Then I didn't. Near the top I finally cracked and lost a little time. A rider who had been yo-yoing off the back came around me at the last minute with a surge of strength that I couldn't match. I limped to the top and across the line.
I cried a little. Neither leg could support me, so I sat on my bike's top tube, hung my head, and gasped the rasping breaths of the dying. I knew I'd done some damage to my calf by pushing through the cramp to that extent, but I wasn't sure how bad it was. The ride back to the start was all downhill, so I was able to spin lightly to try to keep the muscles loose. On the drive back to Fairbanks I stopped at REI and bought every bit of snake oil they had in stock that remotely claimed to prevent or heal the damage from cramps. I was willing to believe in anything if it helped me recover some function.
At the finish, the timing crew pointed out my salt sideburns that followed my helmet straps. When I finally saw them in the mirror, I was impressed with how thick and luxurious they were and pondered how best to groom them. This sudden facial salt growth was likely partially responsible for my cramping. I had consumed my normal amounts of electrolyte-enhanced drinking stuff crafted by NASA-type dudes, but this time around it wasn't sufficient and I paid for it.
That night I couldn't sleep. Between the toddler sleeping next to me who insisted on kicking my road rash rhythmically and the stabbing pains that shot through my right leg when I shifted position, it was an unpleasant night.
The next day I loaded the car with stiff legs and the knowledge that my race was over. The 5th and final stage was just under 40 miles with the last quarter being on gravel roads and uphill. By the final day of a stage race, nobody is feeling 100%. I wasn't even feeling 10%.
My whole goal for the day was to hang on for dear life during the paved part and the slowly make my way through the dirt to the finish. Through wheel-sucking the likes rarely seen in these parts and ego-centric douchebaggery to avoid giving up a coveted draft, I made it to the dirt. As the pack slowly disintegrated, I tried to work my way up to Tom's wheel. I was almost there when the calf popped again. I drifted back to Markus and Chris and tried to latch on. That ended halfway up a dirt climb when my lower back gave out.
I stopped pedaling.
I put a foot down.
I slowly dragged my leg over the top tube and leaned my body over the bike. I stretched my back and massaged my calf until it was merely throbbing.
I started walking up the hill.
When I got to the flat section at the top, I got on the bike again, put it in a low gear, and pedaled easy. I kept pedaling when I got to the loose and steep sections designed to add insult to injury before the finish. I have no idea why, other than I felt like I had to finish what I started. I crossed the line about 11 minutes after Tyson did. The next guy didn't come in for another 11 minutes. If they were looking for a selective stage, they got it.
I dropped to 6th in GC. It would have been 5th, but the crit penalty fiasco allowed another racer to pass me. Chris dropped from 2nd to 3rd because of the same reason. Markus got edged off the podium when a strong climber took silver, so he got the 4th place position that I had previously believed was my birthright.
Tom, that magnificent sandbagging bastard, outdid us all. Likely upset by losing to Chris in the 1st stage, his stormed back with a dominating time trial and his solid climbing allowed him to win the class with a very comfortable margin.
We limped back in ragged groups to the start for a barbeque. Since I had a long drive back home and needed to be at work early Monday, I didn't hang around for awards. I showered, piled gear randomly in the car, loaded up the family, and started driving. It was 3:00PM and I had been awake since 7:00AM. I was already running on insufficient sleep and fatigue from racing for 4 days. I expected the trip to take 8 hours if we hit the road construction areas just right and rest stops for the baby didn't take too long. My estimation was a tad off.
While we were on the road between Fairbanks and Denali, a wildfire flared from 20 acres to a kabillion square miles in a couple hours, closing the highway between us and Anchorage. If you look at a map of Alaska, there's really two paved highway routes from Fairbanks to Anchorage. The shorter one runs through Denali, the longer one runs east. There are no other north-south routes, and generally once you're on one, you're committed.
We spent some time perusing the overpriced tourist traps in Denali while we reviewed our options, then pressed forward. We were hoping that they would reopen the highway before we got there, but eventually they announced that the road would be closed indefinitely. We were 150 miles and a bunch of construction zones from Fairbanks, so turning around wasn't sounding all that great. The road ahead was closed for the foreseeable future. We took option C.
The Denali Highway is a 135 mile gravel road that runs east to west and connects to the other Anchorage route. I have a bunch of friends that have ridden it on bikes, but I'd never driven it. I did a few quick calculations on gas and worst-case scenarios, then turned left into the great wide nothing. While dusty, the road was well-maintained and the scenery was great. A few widely-scattered lodges and mining camps were the only signs of habitation along the road, and we only saw a handful of other vehicles. By the time we reached pavement again, a thick layer of dust had covered my once sparkling race bikes, turning them white. The windshield had more guts on it than a slaughterhouse floor. The bugs were hitting the glass with such frequency we initially mistook it for rain. We were still over 250 miles from home and it was 10:30PM, eight hours after we left Fairbanks.
Once back on the pavement and in cell service, we learned the fire had grown to biblical proportions. Unlike the bugs, we weren't dead or stuck in traffic, so we congratulated ourselves on the brilliant tactical decision. A quick stop for gas and caffeine in shot form, and we finally reached Anchorage at 3:00AM, 12 long hours after we left Fairbanks and a lifetime since that morning. I pulled the ghost bikes off the back of the car, removed random bags, and passed out in a heap.
Three hours later I got ready for work. It wasn't a good day at work.
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