Back in the Wheels.
I jumped in a crit tonight.
I wasn't dropped.
Despite what the results may say, I call that a win.
I hung in there, mixed it up when the urge struck me, and most importantly, finished with the front group. That's all I wanted to do.
I have to be honest with myself. I've been gaining weight and bleeding fitness while the competition has been putting in the miles and putting down the fork. I'm not the rider I was last year, and he's not the rider I was the year before... I can track about a five year decline in Training Peaks (if I had the energy or motivation to do so), and this last year has probably been the most signficant dip. At a certain point, you can't fake it anymore with douchy wheelsucking and a mind for kindergarten-level race tactics. You have to have something in the legs and the will to mix it up with the pack between the ears. The last crit I entered, I had neither. This one? I dunno. Maybe it was the luck of the draw or the mostly flat course.
It was a good sized pack at the start, so I figured I wouldn't be riding alone when I got dropped. We started off relatively moderately, and I wasn't complaining. A few laps into this polite little parade, a small gap opened at the front. Nobody closed it. It got bigger, and still nobody closed it. The guy at the front of the line watching the whole thing happen just kept chugging away, and the gap got bigger. Finally, figuring I was doomed to blow up anyway, I closed the gap down and dragged the rest of the pack with me. At least I could say I did something during the race.
The effect of this was the pace increased slightly. After a few laps, the Kaladi hitters went to the front and increased the tempo. The line strung out. Probably a few riders were immediately dropped. To be honest, I didn't notice, because I was just trying to stay in contact for survival. A somewhat sharp turn suddenly took on a new dimension at the higher speed, and the line took it wide. Amber Stull took it a little too wide, and went into the curb, flying off her bike and into the grass. In all of my growing resume of wrecks, I've never had a landing that was that fortunate. The problem was that those immediately behind her grabbed brakes and started rubbernecking- with the rest of the pack lined up on their wheels. I yelled, because I'm an asshole, but also because I was scared as hell that my landing wasn't going to be so soft. I barely managed to squeeze between two riders and to relative safety. I knew my best bet for survival was to find a stable wheel and stick there until the pack was whittled down and the pace was smoother.
We slowed down to allow Amber to jump back on, and then the pace slowly started increasing again. Riders were shed. I found a sort of rhythm I could maintain in the paceline. Not that it was exactly a stable pace, with stronger riders surging to the front for a few laps, then fading to the back. When they rang the first prime bell, I was in decent position, but it wasn't until the last turn that I actually decided to contest the sprint. Might as well get something out of it before the inevitable drop. My kick was slow coming around, but I eventually built up enough steam to cross the line first. Go figure.
Problem was, I now had a gap and no power left to press the advantage. I slowed a bit, allowed the pack to catch back up (not that I could have held them back), and then did the world's slowest pull on the front until stronger riders took over. I figured my race was going to be over soon.
And yet, I persisted.
The next prime came, and I was thinking about it a bit earlier. I had sized up the opposition and knew there were only a couple of them with the kick to beat me in a drag race, and they were behind me. Maybe I should close down that outside line. As I thought this, Erik Ostberg came through on a mission, and I didn't have the mental presence to grab the wheel or accelerate myself. I just marveled at the power. The net effect was that the paceline was pushed over by Erik's outside drive, into the path I was wanting for my own sprint. Didn't they hear me call dibs? I had to move through traffic a bit, and ended up third- again more than I ever expected.
The rest of the race I sat on Matt Tabinor's wheel. I was considering moving up, but Amber makes a crappy barn door. Plus, simply hanging with Matt was my one pre-race goal. If I could hold his wheel for the entire time, I would feel like my entry fee was justified. Every time we came around, I'd watch the clock and urge it to go faster. Just get me to the finish in one piece and we'll call it even.
The last lap the hitters went to the front and upped the pace right about to the point where my rubber band was about to snap. Still I was in good position and ready to go. However, the trend of not respecting my dibs continued and there was nowhere for me to go. I didn't sprint and crossed the line in fifth.
Fifth is good.
Who am I kidding? After this past year, fifth is wonderful.
A glance at the post-race numbers tells me I'm far off my usual level. The peaks and averages are pretty down there. My Garmin, which is far more intelligent than I am in calculating recovery times, told me to take the next six months off.
So, I think I'll go for a ride. It's nice to be back in the wheels again.
I wasn't dropped.
Despite what the results may say, I call that a win.
I hung in there, mixed it up when the urge struck me, and most importantly, finished with the front group. That's all I wanted to do.
I have to be honest with myself. I've been gaining weight and bleeding fitness while the competition has been putting in the miles and putting down the fork. I'm not the rider I was last year, and he's not the rider I was the year before... I can track about a five year decline in Training Peaks (if I had the energy or motivation to do so), and this last year has probably been the most signficant dip. At a certain point, you can't fake it anymore with douchy wheelsucking and a mind for kindergarten-level race tactics. You have to have something in the legs and the will to mix it up with the pack between the ears. The last crit I entered, I had neither. This one? I dunno. Maybe it was the luck of the draw or the mostly flat course.
It was a good sized pack at the start, so I figured I wouldn't be riding alone when I got dropped. We started off relatively moderately, and I wasn't complaining. A few laps into this polite little parade, a small gap opened at the front. Nobody closed it. It got bigger, and still nobody closed it. The guy at the front of the line watching the whole thing happen just kept chugging away, and the gap got bigger. Finally, figuring I was doomed to blow up anyway, I closed the gap down and dragged the rest of the pack with me. At least I could say I did something during the race.
The effect of this was the pace increased slightly. After a few laps, the Kaladi hitters went to the front and increased the tempo. The line strung out. Probably a few riders were immediately dropped. To be honest, I didn't notice, because I was just trying to stay in contact for survival. A somewhat sharp turn suddenly took on a new dimension at the higher speed, and the line took it wide. Amber Stull took it a little too wide, and went into the curb, flying off her bike and into the grass. In all of my growing resume of wrecks, I've never had a landing that was that fortunate. The problem was that those immediately behind her grabbed brakes and started rubbernecking- with the rest of the pack lined up on their wheels. I yelled, because I'm an asshole, but also because I was scared as hell that my landing wasn't going to be so soft. I barely managed to squeeze between two riders and to relative safety. I knew my best bet for survival was to find a stable wheel and stick there until the pack was whittled down and the pace was smoother.
We slowed down to allow Amber to jump back on, and then the pace slowly started increasing again. Riders were shed. I found a sort of rhythm I could maintain in the paceline. Not that it was exactly a stable pace, with stronger riders surging to the front for a few laps, then fading to the back. When they rang the first prime bell, I was in decent position, but it wasn't until the last turn that I actually decided to contest the sprint. Might as well get something out of it before the inevitable drop. My kick was slow coming around, but I eventually built up enough steam to cross the line first. Go figure.
Problem was, I now had a gap and no power left to press the advantage. I slowed a bit, allowed the pack to catch back up (not that I could have held them back), and then did the world's slowest pull on the front until stronger riders took over. I figured my race was going to be over soon.
And yet, I persisted.
The next prime came, and I was thinking about it a bit earlier. I had sized up the opposition and knew there were only a couple of them with the kick to beat me in a drag race, and they were behind me. Maybe I should close down that outside line. As I thought this, Erik Ostberg came through on a mission, and I didn't have the mental presence to grab the wheel or accelerate myself. I just marveled at the power. The net effect was that the paceline was pushed over by Erik's outside drive, into the path I was wanting for my own sprint. Didn't they hear me call dibs? I had to move through traffic a bit, and ended up third- again more than I ever expected.
The rest of the race I sat on Matt Tabinor's wheel. I was considering moving up, but Amber makes a crappy barn door. Plus, simply hanging with Matt was my one pre-race goal. If I could hold his wheel for the entire time, I would feel like my entry fee was justified. Every time we came around, I'd watch the clock and urge it to go faster. Just get me to the finish in one piece and we'll call it even.
The last lap the hitters went to the front and upped the pace right about to the point where my rubber band was about to snap. Still I was in good position and ready to go. However, the trend of not respecting my dibs continued and there was nowhere for me to go. I didn't sprint and crossed the line in fifth.
Fifth is good.
Who am I kidding? After this past year, fifth is wonderful.
A glance at the post-race numbers tells me I'm far off my usual level. The peaks and averages are pretty down there. My Garmin, which is far more intelligent than I am in calculating recovery times, told me to take the next six months off.
So, I think I'll go for a ride. It's nice to be back in the wheels again.
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