Author: kennettron

Arguably my favorite stage race of the year, Cascade has been one of my main targets this season. My primary objective (of the year) was to win the final Aubrey Butte stage, which is nice and hilly but not too hilly. The dream of winning it has filled many long rides over the winters. In fact, Cascade was such a big goal of mine I even wrote in my iCal “Peak of Lifetime” for the week of Cascade. Just so I wouldn’t forget I guess. Even the time I’ve spent training on the course over the years, on that baked, tar-melted pavement among the dry junipers, outnumbers any other race course I’ve ridden. Including races and training, I’ve done roughly 80 to possibly over 100 laps of the course.

So it made sense that I lost ALL of the form just two weeks ago. After I got sick at NVGP I never quite made it back. I got through nationals all right but was on the downslide even then. I’m just worn out from being up so high for so long (I’ve basically been going fast since March). I’d hoped that my legs would come back around just in time for Cascade. I thought that maybe I just needed a few more hard days of training after being sick, which I did. Instead, I got even slower and had the worst race of the year. Cascade has been my only bad one of the season (not counting being completely sick at Hood) so I shouldn’t be too upset. Still though, one blemish on an otherwise spotless nose still stands out. And since it’s the most recent race I’ve done, the unpleasant feeling is still pretty strong.

I’ve lost all motivation to go into detail about the stages or my time spent in Bend with the team, our hosts, and my family, which is unfortunate because I’m sure at one point I had something meaningful or funny worth saying.

Day One was the Prologue, held on an undeveloped mile and a half loop near a golf course. I set the 43^rd fastest time out of 200. Off to a great start, I know. Actually, I wasn’t too upset with this and wasn’t yet aware of how shitty my legs, mind, and body really were. After crossing the line I had some of the worst quad pain I’ve had in a long time and had to unclip both legs for a good minute as I coasted around a small parking lot.

Day Two was the McKenzie Pass road race. I got over the first climb without too much trouble but completely cracked on the last climb at the finish. I was 80^th or 90^th. Can’t remember. My GC race was already long gone and depression came to eagerly take motivation’s place.

Day Three was the long-ass, horribly flat TT. I blew up in the first three minutes and decided to just go super easy after that and save what little legs I had for the next two days. By the turn around I had slowed up so much that I was averaging just 297 watts. In fear of not making the time cut after a guy racing a road bike with no aero bars passed me, I sped up on the way back. My legs felt horrible today. Absolutely worthless, weak, wobbly toothpicks ready to snap in half under the slightest ounce of pressure. I have better form in early November.

Day Four was the Bachelor road race. I followed a move and counter attacked once about half way in and spent 2 minutes off the front before getting caught and spending the majority of the rest of the day among the last five wheels. I finished 100 something in a large group. I met my family and Adelaide at the top of the mountain. I wish they’d been able to see me at ANY other race this year. We went down to the river in town and swam, had a picnic, and later ate dinner. This was probably the best part of the entire trip. I had a second dinner of Chinese food back at our host house. One great thing about this weekend was the amount of food our hosts and team manager, Allen, prepared for us.

Day Five was the crit. I pulled out after completing over half the distance at 50 minutes. I’d been coasting at the back for half the time, just watching the clock. I was still hoping to have enough legs to do a good finish on the last day.

Day Six was the real wake up call to how cracked I currently am. I guarantee that even with the fitness I normally have in the dead of winter, without any racing or hard intervals in my legs, I could make it to the finish with the main lead group on this stage. Today I had nothing. I got bottles for my teammates and helped position John, who was sitting 15^th on GC. I got popped the last time up the steep climb and rode easy to the finish with Berry, who’s also had a recent vanishing of form. Fortunately John held on and moved up to 12 GC, giving Firefighter’s a very good result for the week.

All in all it was a super depressing race for me. I tried to enjoy my time there but it was difficult to see the positives. This has been a very successful year for me. But, living with consistent success can lead to ignoring those good times and dwelling solely on the bad.

I’m taking two weeks super easy/just commuting, which will hopefully allow enough time to train and gain back my fitness before Buck’s County in early September, which will be my last race of the year. I originally thought I’d do some cycleocross this fall but that plan just went out the window. Rest is way more important.

Hello from Bend, WI. I mean Madison, ID. Or maybe I’m in Philadelphia, NM? Last week during the hour-long wait on the runway before my flight from Denver to Boise, I looked out the window into the night and suddenly realized I had no idea where I was or where I was heading. It was a full 15 seconds by the time I figured it out. This isn’t the first time that this has happened. I generally begin having these episodes more and more frequently by this time of year–after five or six months of constant travel throughout the race season. With my sense of place fading and my brain stewing into an unrecognizable pot of confusion, Cascade marks the fast-approaching end of the year.

But first the news. (I realize I used this joke just a week ago but I like it so much that I’ll employ it again). And by news, I mean the Boise Twilight race report. With most teams finally realizing that BC Superweek IS the shit, Boise Twilight had a small turnout this year. No more than 75 riders took to the start line, all vying for the second or third spot on the podium (UHC was there with six guys so second place would be pretty good goal). I crashed into a fallen body and went over the bars within 15 minutes of the start, no doubt caused by some idiot squeezing through a corner where there was no room left to squeeze. The crash and my resulting somersault through the air was topped off by at least two, maybe three, bikes and bodies crashing into my face. I suffered some very minor bumps and cuts, mainly to my forehead. My new Swift Carbon bike seemed to be worse off than me.

Having only mounted the shining steed earlier that afternoon for the first time when Allen got into town, and riding it for about an hour total (including the race), I realized that a bike this new must have been broken beyond repair in the crash. That’s just the way things work. Brand new bike, wheels, helmet, glasses, all with less than an hour of use, were destroyed. Not a doubt in my mind. I was very happily mistaken a few minutes later as the mechanic in the neutral pit looked things over, got my saddle, wheels, and bars straightened out, and sent me on my way.

I took to the front of the race for the next 40 minutes, following moves, attacking, and generally using up valuable energy in many  failed pursuits of primes and breakaways. With my saddle almost 2cm too hight (found that one out later) and an entirely new shifting set up (MicroShift), the race was half about dialing in the new gear, half about having fun in the sun, and half about getting opened up and prepared for cascade scoring a shit ton of free Cliff stuff at the sign in tent!!! Behold, my greatest mooching accomplishment to date:

I’ve calculated that I came away with over 200 resale dollars-worth of product. The guy at sign in kept saying, “Don’t be bashful. I gotta unload all of this stuff,” as we dug deep into the many boxes. In hindsight, I’m not sure he was talking to me. I made two Hunchback of Notre Dame trips to the car and back with Blocks falling out of my jersey.

Anyways, I drifted a bit too far back with three laps to go, didn’t chop for three corners in a row on the second to last lap, and somehow found myself sitting 30th wheel, realizing that I wasn’t going to factor into the finish at all. Coming into the last lap, a separation occurred a few guys in front of me and the gap opened up. The race was up the road and I finished 38th. I didn’t care that much (I did care a little) and was just glad to not crash again. The crowd was great and it was certainly an exciting race. Downtown twilight crits always are.

The next morning Noah and I (Noah is Allen’s 13-year-old son) walked down the street to our free breakfast at the Marriott or Hampton–something fancy-sounding for middle-class people who’re pretending to be rich and too good for Motel 6 or Super 8. I had some bagel pizza things, sugary cereal, and some other sweet, refined flour and grease-soaked “food” while Noah had a waffle and high fructose corny syrup. I mean maple syrup. It was all very delicious.

Whilst leaving the fine establishment, Noah spilled an entire cup of apple juice on one of the guest’s feet. The poor guy was wearing flip flops. Noah apologized but the groggy patron, who’d most likely just woken up 47 seconds ago and stumbled his way downstairs to the breakfast area, barley managed an angry, jaw-clenched, “it’s all right.” It was not, though. Obviously not. Noah and I got the hell out of there before the hounds were released.

(Side story about Noah: he and our host mom, whom he’d just met, went on a walk down by the park Sunday evening while we were out riding and getting groceries. Noah felt the sudden and unavoidable movement of a large bowel and took to the woods as fast as his little legs could carry him. According to our host, he emerged a few minutes later wearing a sheepish grin and carrying a soiled pair of underwear (there were no leaves to use in the pine forest). As he was exiting the woods, a couple and their dog came around the bend. The dog may or may not have found and eaten from the pile left behind. I didn’t hear the full explanation of this part of the story).

Boise to Bend didn’t take too long and we got to our host house in time for a quick spin around the circuit race course, which I’ve now done 489 times. In the last two days. Tonight is the shortened 2.5-mile prologue (the prelude to Cascade, if you will). Unfortunately, the last, and therefor best, 400 meters of the course have been chopped off due to road construction. Making things even more difficult, the course has been closed for preview and pre-riding upon penalty of death because the neighborhood that it’s held in, like most of Bend, hates cyclists. Some of the homeowners complained that a few of the racers were unfriendly and confrontational last year while they checked out the fast, downhill corners of the course the day before the prologue (Those who don’t want to crash might consider this a necessity). But sharing doesn’t seem to happen after third grade. “Can’t we just run over them spandexed faggots without being given the horrid treatment of the middle finger in return?!! What’s the world coming to?! Don’t one of the amendments protect our God-given right to smash those two-wheeled freaks and their vital organs all over the road without being yelled at?!!”

We’ve had half a dozen confrontations with drivers in just the two rides we’ve done here—without breaking a single law other than being in the way and riding two-abreast…both of which aren’t breaking the law of course. Just the typical honking, screaming, and buzzing because we’re there and are slowing down the car behind us for 2.6 seconds. I get honked at, therefor I am.

Bend is being overrun with diesel-fumed rednecks and impatient SUV-driving moms on their way to everywhere and nowhere without a second to spare. Or maybe it’s just us that are overrunning the town. Cyclists need an island all to ourselves (Australia?) where we can be left to ride in peace without ruining everyones’ tight driving schedule of McDonalds–>24-Hour Fitness–>grocery store–>gas station–>McDonalds…all within a half mile of one another.

Although, today has been a relaxing day. Long and mostly uneventful with a short morning ride to open the legs and another one to gather borrowed equipment from Patrick of Full Circle (front tri spoke and skinsuit thank you very much).  Days like today, where we race for less time than it takes to deposit a solid poop, seem like a waste–an unnecessary expense of money and time spent away from home. Is it worth devoting an entire day to a four-minute race? Yes, of course. But only if you finish top 10. For the other 190 riders, the race starts tomorrow.

I’m way out of shape. Not physically. I’m out of bike racer shape, which is to say I’ve lost touch with how to kill hours of down time by watching movies and facebooking. I used to be able to kill a day in no time, but today is taking forever. I’m here in Idaho for the Boise Twilight Crit, just hanging out in the Super 8 Motel with my teammate John Freter until the race tonight at 8:15.

We snuck into a breakfast buffet down the street earlier this morning (Saturday is biscuits and gravy day at the Marriott) and have been lying in bed ever since. Not in the same bed. Just two guys having a good time. We’re on our third episode of Two and a Half Men. I hate this show.

Since I left you hanging from a cliff after my last post I’ll have to go back and talk about the national champ crit because I know you can’t stand the wait any longer. It was flat, held on terrible pavement around the Capitol building, and the little bit of wind made it extremely difficult for breaks to stay away for more than a lap or two. I can’t sprint so my only chance was a breakaway. I sat in for the first hour at the back attempting to tail gun as guys shot out the back. I seriously don’t know how anyone could get dropped in this easy of a race but it happened to a lot of guys. I went with some attacks between 15 and 11 laps to go but nothing lasted long. I waited for another opportunity to attack again with a lap or two to go but had a hard time coming around Cash Call’s excellent lead out train (not because they were going fast–but because they were weaving across the road attempting to cash out everyone behind them in the corners). I finished 21st. I won’t be back to this crit unless I learn how to do a pack sprint.

On the other hand, I hear Boise Twilight is a super decisive course where pack sprints never occur not. My plan for tonight is to go on the attack earlier and get some primes and time off the front if I can manage it, get my legs in order for Cascade, and above all drink an extra large Slurpee afterwards. After our ride yesterday John and I both got Slurpees and both had green poop this morning. I hope 7-11 will be open late tonight. I heard that they used to only be open for 7 to 11, hence the name. Why they chose to have their hours of business between 11PM and 7AM is beyond me. I guess those are good hours for graveyard truckers doing their driving in the middle of the night.

I decided to go for a ride and just got back right now. I’d planned on just doing a boring spin around town but somehow ended up high in the hills overlooking Boise on a perfect climb with zero traffic (it was a closed private road). After the descent I stopped off in downtown near the crit course at the burrito place I’d been to with Spencer and Lang during our drive from Bend to Park City way back in 2010 in prep for the tour of Utah. It’s hot, dry, and sunny here in Boise and everyone was out and about. Should be a good race tonight with a fine crowd. Yes sir indeed. Yep. Yup. Yope.

Check out the live coverage of the race tonight starting at 8:15 central, 9:15 west coast.

http://new.livestream.com/usacrits/events/1949015

I’ll cut to the chase. I was 5th, just barley making it onto the 5-man podium for fame, glory, and riches beyond my wettest dreams. I was not stoked though. I was only coming here to win god damn it! But considering how “sick and shitty” I’ve been lately, 5th is pretty remarkable, according to Liam. After reflection, I have decided that I agree. It was the deepest national field ever (since there are now only 60 or 70 conti pros left), the course was super challenging, and I was on the tail end of a three-week-long cold. Still though, one of my favorite moments yesterday was talking to Adelaide on my cellular telephone after the race and telling her I got 5th, to which she gloomily replied, “Yeah I saw. Oh well.” She knew I’d only be happy with the win. I laughed about her reaction later, since 5th would warrant excessive congratulations from most people. Adelaide has only known me this year during my reign of success so she’s used to me only having great results or super strong rides.

I’ll get to the report, but first the news: the day before the race (Thursday), Michael and I rode the course for a little over an hour to check it out and open our legs after our day of travel on Wednesday. I personally felt like shit but once I could tell Michael was suffering I upped the pace and dropped him. I think we may have ridden harder during that pre-race recon ride than during the actual race. We got ice cream at the small country convenience store at the bottom of the hill afterwards.

(Note: we went there after the race too and the store owner gave us TWO FREE PIECES OF PIZZA!!!! Simply amazing, Wisconsin! When I become dictator of the world I will refrain from making your state part of my mid-continental sea. Instead, I will make you into an island filled with dairy cows, corn, and free pizza for all)!

Michael and I have been staying here at the Motel 6 in Madison, which doubles as a half-way home for ex-cons and recovering meth addicts. No joke. There’s a parole officer that stays here full time. When I first checked in, I saw the parole officer knock and then enter a room with a hand firmly grasping his still-holstered gun. I’m fairly certain that Michael and I are the only real motel guests. Everyone else is here for the long haul. They crowd the outside parking lot late at night to hang out and smoke cigarettes. Their children roam about the sidewalks during the day. One little girl was standing out there yesterday just yelling nonsense to nobody. Just screaming with her hands over her ears and unleashing what will one day become psychopathic anger into the street. These Motel 6 prisoners are dressed in pajamas all day long and seem to only leave their rooms to gather junk food from the downstairs vending machines. Loud doors slam and arguments boom down the hallways at night. I’ve already been asked by a friendly prostitute (or a really horny, tatted-out woman) if I’d like to come to her room. I declined. So that’s where we’re staying. The Motel 6 itself is in the bad part of town too. Late last night when I was out stealing wifi from Rocky’s Party Pizzeria next door, I saw about a dozen souped-up crappy sedans racing and doing peel outs in the middle of the road. Plus a couple gangs of croch rockets went by multiple times. I think the parking lot at Rocky’s Party Pizzeria is the local meeting spot for street racers.

The course was hilly, with one main climb and one steep wall. That first wall was short and steep and never really felt too bad to me. There’s a downhill after that, followed by a long stretch of flat road, some small bumps, then a fairly steep five minute climb. From there you go left after the top false flat section and barrel downhill for ten minutes and do it all over again for six laps total. Unfortunately, one of the originally planned hills was taken out of our course due to road construction, making our race extremely short at just 80 miles. As you  know, I don’t think any road races should be less than 100 miles.

It was hot and muggy but not too bad actually. I was pretty comfortable. I got in some last minute sauna training last week. Michael and I also had one of his teammates, Finn, handing bottles to us in the feed zone. This turned out to be crucial, as my $100 race fee didn’t go to any neutral bottles in the feed zone. None. Instead, USA Cycling divvied the $20,000 in race entry fees to the fully loaded cash prize list. Wait…

Finn, at 6’3″ 200 pounds, was the most graceful bottle feeder that I’ve ever had the pleasure to grasp a bottle from. Each hand off was a complete motion of fluidity and ease. I didn’t grab them, Finn coaxed the bottles into my hand. Every time I got an ice cold bottle from Finn it felt like a thousand tiny ice feries were having an orgy right in my palm.

Okay, NOW onto the race. But first a few quotables from the week: the first is from John Hornbeck of Hagens. The second time up the main climb I heard this roar of anger and dirty words come from Steve Tillford. “Keep your fucking hands on your fucking bars when you climb. FUCK!! FUCKING FUUUUCK!!!” I think there were a few other words mixed in there but that’s all I heard. I looked over to see him arguing with John, who replied with the most SoCal phrase I can think of: “Bro, chill out.” Followed by, “Dude.” This brought me much laughter. But of course, since I’m staying with Michael, the best quotes of the week came from him.

While we were talking about how amazing it was to get ice-cold bottles out of the cooler in the feed zone, as opposed to luke warm bottles, Michael suddenly became very angry that more people don’t realize that cold water is a performance enhancer in the heat. This little doozy came out of Michael’s angry lips a second later: “It’s fucking science!”

Another one: “I’m a one-woman kinda guy.”

Another while talking about amateurs VS pro tour riders: “They just don’t like to break wind. I guess in the Pro Tour they don’t mind breaking wind as much.”

While eating ice cream on a bench, Michael’s cone started dripping white cream all over his shirt and crotch. “Damnit. It slipped out.” Finn didn’t even need to say it but he did anyways…That’s what she said.

Michael is the master of unintentional humor.

Finally the race: We started out downhill for 10 minutes of brake-melting neutral coasting. Once we started racing I began to drift back into the pack farther and farther, having no interest in following moves or tempting myself with a dumb early attack. It worked and I avoided the early break, which was just one guy. The first time up the climb was hard but not impossible to crest the hill in the top 20. The second time was easier, thought it got hard again near the top during an attack. It slowed down a couple hundred meters before the downhill so I attacked on the left before anyone else got the chance. I knew it was going to hurt just as much following as leading. My move didn’t really go anywhere.

The third time up the climb was the one that counted. Five guys got away just over the top. A CashCall rider set off in pursuit on the descent. Roman Kilun (Mike’s Bike’s) went after him. I was the last to go and made contact with Roman a minute later. The eight of us all joined up part way into the descent and quickly built a good lead, working together and taking even pulls. With most of the major teams represented, I knew it was a solid move to invest my energy with. A lap later we had 1:30 to the field, though suddenly four more bridged to us (I think). After the fifth time up the climb it was down to ten. I’m not sure if we dropped guys on that climb or if it was really only two guys that bridged to us, but the final ten that would contest the finish were:

David Santos and Cole House (CashCall)
Stephen Leece (Cal Giant)
Cameron Cogburn (CCB)
Joe Schmalz (Elbowz)
Colby Ricker (Sonic Boom)
Kevin Mullervye  (Champion System) 
Roman Kilun (Mike’s Bikes)
Andrew Seitz (Panther)
Me

Our gap was holding strong and I thought it was obvious that if we let it come down to the final climb, Cogburn would win. He was lighting the climb up each time with ferocity normally reserved for a Kennett devouring a large hoagie. The final time up the climb (the sixth time), instead of stopping after the feed zone it continued on for another kilometer across the top false flat lumpy section. From there you take a quick downhill turn to the right and go straight back up another steep climb for about one kilometer. The final four hundred meters of this are the hardest, steepest pitch.

House was the first to attack and he did it on the steep wall that I said never hurt that much. This time it did hurt a tiny bit I guess. It was about 10K before the finish and broke our group into three pieces, with me not worried about following the attack and deciding to save my legs in the third group. A minute or two later we all came back together as I assumed we would and I attacked and got away solo on a short downhill. I immediately had a good gap and no one chased. Had I been feeling 100% that day I’d have gone for it and if those guys didn’t organize a good chase I’d have been gone for good. But I wasn’t at full power. I was faking it. I had been feeling pretty weak all day long and knew I’d blow sky high within five minutes so I sat up after a K and let them catch me. We went really slow for a long time after that with only a few weak attacks. I went a final time right before the final climb just to see if I could get some distance before the real fireworks went off. I was joined by Colby but we were both reeled in pretty quickly once the climb began.

At first, our pace was more mellow than I’d thought it would be and was happy about that. Leece attacked pretty early. I set a decent pace on the front. He hovered about 15-20 seconds up the road and nobody made a move until we were most of the way up the steep part of the climb. Cogburn went. I didn’t even try to follow. No one did. Shorty afterwards Schmalz went. For the rest of us, it was now obviously a race for fourth place.

Some hard, hurtful accelerations were made over the top of the climb by the five guys left in our group. We went down the short, 20-second long descent and Kevin and I pulled off the front as Roman came around. The gradient decreased for a minute and we all took the opportunity to attempt to catch our breath and get the acid out of our legs. I personally failed on both accounts. I was at the back now.

With 500 meters to go I was on the verge of giving up. I NEVER give up in races, so it was pretty disheartening for me to even be thinking this. We were all in massive amounts of pain at this point and there were about 2.5 minutes of the worst pain yet to come. Usually I relish this moment. I believe I can push much harder than most in the final minutes of a race, especially when it’s been hard all day long and the final effort involves climbing a steep wall. But the last two weeks had been far below ideal race preparation and the mental and physical toll were wearing on me. I’d only done a handful of rides in the last 20 days and my cough had just subsided on Monday. All of these bad thoughts were going through my head as I began to get dropped from the remainder of the breakaway. I would finish 10th, last of the breakaway. But somewhere I found that last little bit of will power and forced myself up out of the saddle. I passed two guys. Then I passed one more. Than one more. I was closing in on Colby for 4th but ran out of hill. Once we got to the final 100 meter flat section at the top there was nothing more I could do. I crossed the finish line in 5th a few seconds behind him and 24 seconds behind the winner, Leece. I know I shouldn’t be upset about this result but it seems like my whole season has been characterized by near misses and consistent decency. I’ve rarely had a superb race this season (or a superb race by my standards). I want to win. I want to win a stage of an NRC. I have a few more opportunities and hopefully this week of training/racing and the next week of intervals back home will get me up to my normal level so I can take out that Aubrey Butte stage at Cascade. Then there’s a month off in August to fully focus on getting fast before my final two races of the year: Green Mountain and Buck’s County (PS if anyone knows of a team I can guest ride with at Buck’s County, please let me know).

I rode three hours today for some extra volume and have been laying around in my sweaty bed ever since. Tomorrow is the crit. I will be attacking. I need more food. Chipotle is calling again.

I am all that is disgusting…my arms and chest look huge. Photo by Erika Fulk of Detroit Spoke.

Photo from USA Cycling. Left to right: Colby, Cameron, Stephen, Joe, me.

After an out of the blue barrage of dissent from my director, I’ve left Team Rio Grande. It feels terrible to leave mid season like this but it wouldn’t have been feasible to race well or enjoy my time with the team after being talked to like I was. I won’t go into the details. I wish my teammates the best and greatly appreciate all the support I’ve received from our sponsors this year.

In happier news, I’m finally over my cold (pretty much). As you might remember from my last post, I had to pull out of Nature Valley before starting the last stage because I was so sick. I flew home a day later and began my long progression towards health. It lasted three days.

By Wednesday I was feeling well enough to fly out the next day to Mt. Hood for the final edition of that race. I knew I wouldn’t be going super well, since I was still fighting the cold, but had convinced myself that I’d get better once I got out there into some fresh Oregon air. I figured I could still be of use to a couple of my teammates who were going well at the time, Nick in particular.

Early Thursday morning at 4AM, when I got up to take a taxi to the bus station, my sore throat was back. When I got to Oregon I was already feeling like I’d made a bad decision to come out for the race. I felt okay on the ride that morning with the team—the first time I’d touched the bike since the previous Saturday. I didn’t feel “well” though.

Friday: the first stage was also my last stage. I attacked immediately, knowing that I had only a few bullets to spend to try to make an impact on the race. Part of me knew that I wouldn’t be starting the following day. Racing only makes a cold worse. Never better.

Since there were no pre-race instructions and no neutral zone (the official’s car just took off without a word) my move from the non-existent gun caught a lot of people off guard. Only 25 guys managed to come with me.

I went pretty hard for the first K or so until Steve Fisher (Hagens Berman) and Logan Owen (Cal Giant) caught me. We were soon joined by my teammate Nick and some more Cal Giant guys, making a group of six or seven. More guys continued bridging up to us.

As the move swelled in those first 10K, I discontinued my time at the front as I was unable to recover my legs back from going over threshold. I was fine to ride hard tempo, but anything over that and I quickly started to fade. Before we got to the KOM, Nick asked me if I was going for it. I said no, and that he should himself.

As we made the left hand turn up the KOM, the group had reached 25 or more riders with the rest of the peloton close behind. Cal Giant had at least six guys, HB had three I believe, we had two, and most of the other teams had one or two as well. But almost have of them were spit out the back going up the KOM and our group went down to 15. Still too big.

Even though Cal Giant had five in the move, our gap never went up to more than a minute because everyone who was pulling was just barely taping through. I had to recover for a good 10 minutes before I went to the front. Even though I was sick I ended up doing more work than anyone else over the next couple laps, wondering whether it was wise to continue on.

Mucus started flowing into my lungs and I hacked it up more and more as the race progressed. Great. I’d ridden it into my lungs and now I had a cough. I pulled out of the break and out of the race half way though, hoping that I’d at least helped the move enough for it to stick and for Nick to win. He’d been going for the KOM points and had been riding as strong as anyone else in the move. His chance for taking the short uphill finish sprint was good.

But the move was caught a lap later and the next move won it. I flew home and was sick for another week before I started training again. Yesterday was my first set of intervals and they weren’t the best I’ve had, though they weren’t the worst of the year either. Since my legs are still sore and a bit tired, if anything I might have done a little too much in the past half week trying to get my legs back before nationals (which start on Friday). I felt like I needed to get opened up though.

Over the past week, Adelaide and I have been staying at Lydia and Jeff’s apartment next to Boulder Creek. It feels like a vacation home with the river right there, a park and pool—situated right near downtown. One night we watched an amazing lightning storm. There were bolts of lightning going off every second in a 300-degree radius. We thought it would be a good idea to go walk outside to a large, vacant parking lot about a mile away to get an un-disturbed view. It did not disappoint.

The storm was coming directly towards us and the thunder grew louder and louder. The wind picked up and blew sprinkler mist from the lawn in the air towards us, a little taste of the drenching we would soon receive. A bolt of lighting struck down in the city and an eerie green glow illuminated the sky for about 10 seconds. A transformer had blown to smithereens. I made fun of Adelaide for being scared and wanting to leave. She wanted to outlast another girl who was watching behind us with her boyfriend on the running trail. Adelaide is strangely competitive.

When the rain stared, the other couple left. I wanted to sit right there through the whole thing but the rain quickly turned into a downpour with gumball sized hail. We ran for home, getting pelted on the head and shoulders from the massive hail. The lighting storm continued, giving all of Boulder and the surrounding area a free strobe light dance party. I was secretly hoping to get struck, like I always do because I assume the lighting will give me super powers, but we made it back unscathed, except for some hail bruises.

I now sit in the Denver airport waiting for my flight to Madison, Wisconsin. The road race on Friday is my main goal. The crit on Sunday will be a consolation just in case I don’t get the result in the road race. I have no idea how my legs and lungs will feel for the race. I’m guessing good but hoping for amazing like they’ve normally been this year. I’ll be racing for Firefighter’s this weekend and for the remainder of the season, trying to recreate this:

(Written on Tuesday)

I’ve learned that you should forget your failures just as quickly as your accomplishments. To dwell on either is to practice the art of status quo—stagnation.

This past weekend I came close to my greatest result on the bike yet. Had I not gotten sick, and assuming I would have placed near the front of the field on Sunday (a no-brainer), I would have wound up 8^th overall. At an NRC that’s pretty decent.

But what you could have done doesn’t mean a damn thing. The important thing is what you did. Actually that doesn’t matter either. The only thing that really has any worth to it is what you can do.

Enough hypothesizing. Onto what happened in the race:

Stage 4

The Minneapolis Uptown crit is a pretty big ordeal. It has somewhere between 30 and 900 thousand of spectators, plenty of annoyed traffic circumnavigating the blocked roads, and a large VIP tent. The VIP tent has food—little sandwiches, wraps, shrimps, cheeses, and crackers. I didn’t have any though. I was leaning over the fence just looking at it when a guy on the greener side of the fence asked me what I’d like. Suddenly the food lost its appeal once the legal means of obtaining it was offered. I said I’d pass since I’d probably throw it up half way into the race. The Uptown crit, unlike the Saint Paul crit, is fast and hard.

For me it was hard because I was doing a poor job guarding my position. I’d get chopped in and out of every other dag-nab-it-all corner. And I never quite made it up far enough to get out of the scrum. My legs were there but my head wasn’t quite in it I guess.

I avoided the many crashes of the opening laps and got to witness Brad Huff of Jelly Belly tear into a guy for two laps straight, angrily pointing his finger in front of and screaming right into this guy’s face (while cornering mind you. I was impressed). If I were that guy I probably would have immediately apologized, peed my pants, and dropped to the back of the pack. But this guy didn’t do that. Instead he argued back then proceeded to crash himself out the lap after Brad was done yelling at him. I couldn’t believe it. I was so happy. He just slid out, likely out of fear.

The reason Brad was yelling at him was because this guy had chopped both of us super dangerously before the last corner of the first lap. I don’t know how I didn’t crash when he did it. It was so bad it was actually malicious, as if was trying to cause a pile up behind him. But karma came back and slammed this fucker into the pavement at 30+mph. Thank you baby Jesus!

From then on out I stagnated mid pack, riding like an uncaring wimp. I began moving up near the end and thought I was safe with two or three laps to go sitting 30^th wheel. But a gap opened up just two guys in front of me on the last lap. I came around in the final 100 meters and was just a single second off the tail end of the lead group but of course the time is taken from the front of the group to the first gap, so me and three other guys were awarded a 9-second time gap. Fair enough. I should have been farther up. I placed 28^th on the day and moved down to 14^th on GC. I wasn’t too concerned about this though. From the rumors I’d heard, the group tomorrow would be smashed to smithereens. And I knew for certain that I was going to be the jackhammer that helped done it.

Stage 5

The Menomonee road race takes place in the steep hills of Wiscaaaansin. The course is 101 miles including four, 2.5-mile finishing circuits through town. The last time I did this race was 2010 and I was sick as a dog. I was gapped off on the final KOM climb into town and finished like 15 minutes back. This time I was also sick but finished 20^th and moved back up to 13^th on GC.

A slight trickle in my throat was all it took for me to know I was infected during my warm up. My teammates had been getting sick from each other throughout the week. Note: the most beneficial thing a teammate can ever do, in my opinion, is to not show up to a race when sick. Just stay the hell away! (Unless you’re me. In which case you probably aren’t contagious. Ever. So don’t worry about it).

I put the viral thought in the back of my mind, convincing myself I was just parched. I drank extra water.

It took a few little rollers before my legs felt decent. Even the neutral section hurt me a bit as we trucked along at a very ‘neutral,’ friendly pace of 541 watts over the little bumps. The opening attacks to form the breakaway didn’t last long today once the red flag dropped. Six or seven brave souls guys got up the road fairly quickly and Optum set a medium pace for the next 25 miles or so. I sat in, waiting for that second KOM, which was the nastiest climb of the day. It was short and steep, and I was told that it would determine the race’s outcome. A strong group would most likely get away there, or the field would be so hurt and shattered from that climb that the winning move would get away on the following 3rd KOM, which was just a few miles after the 2nd.

I was the first to attack on the steep slopes of that crucial KOM #2. I didn’t give it full gas since I wasn’t quite sure how long the top rolling section was before we went downhill. Janier Acevedo (Jamis) and six or seven other strong guys came around me and I did a big effort to hop on the back of the line. We tore up the rest of the climb and pretty quickly started working at the top (Not me. I sat at the back like I new I should. I had no teammates and a great excuse not to pull: weak amateur!) I was hurting pretty bad but we had a good gap by the time we got off the top section and descended down to the flat.

Unfortunately we got caught here by a hard-chasing Optum train, lead by Tom Zirbel, which was protecting Friedman’s yellow jersey. I bided my time then attacked again on the next steep KOM a few miles later. This time I didn’t have nearly enough in my legs to get a solid gap since I’d started the climb like 20 guys back, due to poor positioning. I led the field up the climb and swung off when I saw that again, Optum was chasing me and fellow Pacific Northwesterner, Morgan Schmidt.

I wasted no time and attacked 30 seconds after we were caught and got my gap. I pegged it hard to establish some daylight between me and the field, hoping that others would follow and the field would shatter over this top rolling section, but no one else deemed it wise to disrupt the steady, crushing pace set by Optum. They were just too strong for us today I guess. That or everyone was riding like wimps.

The rest of my race, until the final series of climbs into town, was spent in the pack being bored and pissed off that the race was so easy.

When we approached the final five or six mini climbs before the finishing circuits, I was attentive and followed half a dozen moves. Each time I thought there was a chance the field behind was doomed, but alas, they were continually saved by the strength and cohesion of Optum. Finally, once all the hard attacking was done, it was the semi soft attack on the flat that got away and won the day. Optum just let it roll once they saw that there wasn’t anyone up there that was going to be a threat to Friedman’s jersey. I’m glad the stage was won with a hardman effort though. Travis Mcabe was in the early break all day, which was caught like 20 miles from the finish, then he went again with that last attack and helped drill it all the way to the line for the win. Well done sir. That’s how bike races should be won.

Stage 6

I spent Stage 6 in bed. I amassed a total of 21 and a half hours of sleep over a 24-hour period, which I believe is a world record if I’m not mistaken. I have never been knocked out this hard by a cold before. Here’s what my sleep schedule entailed, starting Saturday night. I slept from:

11pm Saturday night to 10am Sunday morning.

10:30am to 5:30pm.

6:00pm to 9:30pm. Then I was back to sleep by 11pm.

I woke to eat a few times and to pack my bike for the trip home on Monday morning. Almost the entire time I had terrible nightmares about missing the final stage of the race, only to periodically wake up and realize that I was currently living that nightmare. I was clinically depressed all that day and the next. I’m fine now though.

As quick as the cold came on, it’s now almost gone. I thought there was no way I’d be fit to race Mt. Hood by Friday but now I’m having second thoughts. Maybe they’re dumb second thoughts. But, since there’s a pretty cheap one-way ticket available, I’m tentatively planning on flying out there to meet the team on Thursday morning. I’ll see how I feel tomorrow.

During times of depression, as well as elation, it’s good to remember that your fortune can change in a heartbeat. One second you’re crushing fools off the front of the race, the next you’re laying in bed, missing the race altogether. And then, with some luck, you’re crushing it again half a week later. Time for me to go eat a ton of hot and sour chicken soup to get over the last drips of this cold.

Going to bike races is all about getting pampered. I’m being taken care of the right way here at the Faulkner residence. CJ is a bike racer himself so he knows the rules. If I have a bag that needs carrying he’s there at the snap of my fingers. If my wheel needs truing at the bike shop every day he’s there to drive me to and from. I need groceries? From which store? he asks. I need to be driven to packet pick-up during rush hour after he’s been laying bricks since 5am and done intervals afterwards? He’s on it. I desire a car to drive around for leisure? He asks which one I’d prefer to take. Yep, I can pretty point my good results directly at being spoiled rotten by CJ and his wife Jen.

That and a shit load of intervals.

I’m here guest riding with Full Circle. My teammates for the week include Marcel DeLisser, Chad Adair, and Brad Tuhi.

Day one (Wednesday) was really spread out over what I think may have been 73 hours. It was a really long day. Time definitely slowed to some extent, maybe even stopped completely for a while. An observer of my life would have witnessed me come to a complete halt as time, for me alone, appeared to stop as if I were approaching a black hole. It definitely felt like I was at a halt during the morning’s 7.7-mile time trial.

Stage 1

I woke to rain and dark thunderclouds. The ride to the course and the health of my knees were saved by a bright metallic blue pair of warmers I had to borrow from Jen. I tried to remember the last real time I spent riding in the rain. Two years ago. Colorado ‘rain’ doesn’t count. I did my warm up near the course under increasing precipitation and increasingly soggy shoes. Thunder and lightning shook and flashed awake the black sky. The rain turned into a downpour. Potholes and gravel strewn about the crappy road surface were covered in thigh-deep puddles. Small poodles would have drown if they’d been taken for a walk. The only reason I wrote that last line was because the word puddle triggered my mind to think of the word poodle. I should have used them in the same sentence. Small poodles would have drown in the deepening puddles.

My hope for smashing out a top 20 was high since this was an Eddy Merckx style TT: no time trial equipment. I have to admit, I did enjoy the effort. Who wouldn’t? It was pouring rain with thunder and lighting! Aside from the pain and terrible time I put in, it was fun. I finished 40th. I was shivering within minutes of finishing but of course CJ was there to drive me home.

Stage 2

The Wednesday evening crit in Saint Paul was much more pleasant. After spending six hours in bed watching TubePlus and scouring facebook I rode downtown for the 75-minute crash fest–or what I assumed would be a crash fest. It turned out to be pretty safe, at least for me and the guys directly in front of me. The course was technical and fast but all the mayhem seemed to occur directly behind me. Causation or correlation? It was safe up front. I finished 27th and ended the day with a 33rd on GC. I got home at 9:45 and had the lights out by 2AM.

Photo by Mathew Pastick

Stage 3

And now onto the main event–for this blog post anyways. The 93-mile Cannon Falls road race on Thursday went better than I expected. I assumed it would be a straightforward race: a small break gets away and Jelly Belly sets tempo until Jamis takes over for the leadout sprint, resulting in a boring group ride for three hours and a fast, lined-out 15 minutes at the end where I come in 38th.

Ten miles into the race, a strong group of 20 just up and split off the front at the top of the second KOM. It was hardly even a hill, but it was enough for some weak-assed punk to let the wheel go. I was too far back to respond. I’d been up near the front for the first KOM and had been following wheels and attacking in between the two climbs but was caught with my dick in my hands leading into that second KOM. No really, I think I might have been peeing.

The next two plus hours were spent chasing and attacking as teams and riders tried to bring back the large group, which contained many of the overall contenders.

I bided my time, not doing any work or attacking whatsoever until half of the breakaway had come back to us. The eight leaders’ gap was down to 45 seconds when I tested the waters for the first time. No dice. Still too may people willing to chase every little move down. I continued waiting for another 20 minutes before I did my second attempt. It was inspired mainly because I felt like a big pileup was about to happen and I wanted to be up the road when it went down. We were in one of the many crosswind sections of the day with everyone crowded on the very left side of the road, trying to avoid the rumble strips while remaining in the draft. I’d had enough of the jostling around and rolled off to the right side of the road once we slowed down for a moment. I pretended I was just drinking water and looked over across to the left side of the road at the front of the peloton, taking extra long sips as if saying “Hey guys, I’m just really thirsty right now and for some reason I can’t drink within the peloton and I have to ride way out over here in the wind by myself to properly rehydrate.”

I slowly accelerated, still with the bottle up to my mouth, without making a sudden jump, ramping my speed up as un-threateningly as I could. I looked back and had a large gap already. The field was still sitting up and no one had responded to my move. Excellent. Wait. This is the opposite of excellent. I was headed for no-man’s land. The break was almost two minutes of the road. This would be impossible to bridge alone and just a huge, amateur, waste of energy.

Head down into the wind, I decided I must keep going. If I sat up immediately I would look weak. I’d rather blow myself up than look weak. A few minutes later I picked up one rider along the way. I’m not sure if he’d been dropped from the break or if he was a remnant of an attack 10 minutes prior, but I can tell you one thing: he was completely worthless in my pursuit of the leaders. I used more energy yelling at him to pull than I gained from sitting in his draft for the six seconds at a time that he did pull. The only real work he did was when the TV camera was on us for a few minutes. He complained that he was hurting bad, and I’m sure he was, but if you can talk you’re not hurting that much. Some people need to learn how to suffer.

The gap went down: 1:20, 1:10, 50 seconds, 25 seconds. The eight leaders were agonizingly close for the last six or seven minutes.

After 20 or 30 minutes since I got away, I finally made contact with the leaders. I’d thought about attacking the guy on my wheel and dropping him so that he didn’t get up there with me (because I was still mad at him), but decided to not make an enemy out of that team. We came up on the back of the break during a small rise, I took a bottle from the Optum car, and went straight to the front for double time pulls. If I alone could catch these guys, that meant that others behind could do it in half the time. Our gap to the peloton was three minutes, which was a good amount of time but easily catchable with 25 miles left to go. We needed more speed.

Within maybe eight minutes of catching the break, the moto came by and told us there was a group of 18 just 30 seconds behind us. Great. All that time in the wind and I could have just sat up and gotten a free ride. Oh well. At least I was in what would certainly be the winning move. I didn’t stop taking pulls though. My legs felt good and I thought that as long as I wasn’t pulling above 500 watts I’d remain pretty fresh. What an arrogant bastard I am!

Just seconds before the 18 guys caught us, and right before the final KOM climb, I launched another crafty attack and got away alone.

Photo from Velonews

I plugged away up the climb, looking back to check on my gap every twenty seconds to gauge my effort. No sense in going too hard. All I wanted was the KOM points. I began soft pedaling with 200 meters to go in order to let them catch me right after I crossed the KOM line. 15 seconds later Janier Acevedo (Jamis) blew by me on the left. A second after that an Optum rider, Jesse Anthony, came by in pursuit of Acevedo. I got on his wheel, wondering what was going on. Were they really attacking each other already? I thought the new group of 28 (18+10) would motor along together to at least the finishing circuits. Shows how much I know about bike racing.

A minute later, next to join us through the feed zone was Freddie Rodriguez (Jelly Belly) and Andres Diaz (Elbowz). Freddie immediately began pulling the hardest, and once we all began cooperating, which didn’t take more than a minute, our gap grew quickly. Soon we had 1:26 on the group behind. I became excited, thinking of the finish already. At the very worst I’d finish 5th and be 5th on GC, assuming we kept this gap or grew it. I pulled but took a break every few minutes, just to keep my legs from going acidic. I wanted to be able to respond immediately to any attacks and knew that it wasn’t even expected that I take a pull at all, since I’m obviously just a weak, worthless amateur.

I took us onto the 1-mile gravel section that lead into town, which was fun, even pleasant, in a small group as opposed the the chaos of a large peloton. Freddie and Janier took over soon afterwards.

As we came upon the town and the final four, two-mile finishing circuits, I looked back to see that our gap had come down to just a handful of seconds. Doomed. The group that consumed us at the start/finish line was down to 14 riders (now 18 with us). I sat eight or 10 guys back, wondering what I should do. I was one of the only guys without a teammate in the group, so sitting in seemed like the best option.

I attacked a minute later but quickly sat up once I looked over my shoulder to see them just a few bike lengths back. Guys continued to attack on those first two laps. Freddie took a hard pull to bring back Joe Schmalz (Elbowz) and an Optum and a Cash Call rider. I thought about doing the counter attack since I was right on Freddie’s wheel but hesitated. Sean Mazich (Jelly Belly) took off on the left. I almost got out of the saddle to join him, but again hesitated. There seemed to be too much fire power in the group and I was certain it would come down to a sprint. It took all my will power to not go with Mazich as I saw his move out of the corner of my eye.

That hesitation, in this case, turned out to be the wrong decision. I thought I was being smart but he ended up staying away to win. I botched the finish sprint and came in 10th. I need more practice at this whole trying to win thing. I’ve got to get out of the survival mode to which I’ve grown accustomed over the past couple years on the NRC circuit.

I secretly hoped for the most aggressive rider’s jersey as a consolation but didn’t get it. Anthony was a good choice since he’d been up the road in the original move all day. I currently sit 13th on GC and hope to improve on that tomorrow, and of course the final day–Stillwater. My main goal remains to win that stage. After witnessing the mayhem yesterday, all my prior belief that a team can hold onto the lead by setting tempo on the front is gone–for tomorrow’s road race or Stillwater. Pure agression will win, and that’s what I like best anyways.

Last week was stressful. I got into work at noon on Monday and stayed late after a long morning of travel. My subconscious was transfixed on how I’d get a new bike frame within the end of the week for Nature Valley. I ended up calling in a favor from Hagens Berman and was sent a used Blue (Ian’s?) the very next morning. I stripped down my Specialized and equipped the Blue with my components on Friday and it was ready to race on Saturday morning—after an evening stop at Steven’s house to pick up a seat post and front derailleur clamp. Indubitably, things went wrong with the bike later but I got everything sorted out by the end of the weekend and it will be good for Nature Valley.

Other possessional and monetary turmoil included losing my ipod on the bus from the airport, realizing I lost my City Navigator card in my Garmin when I sent it in for a replacement Garmin, dealing with my Zipp rear that won’t stay true (Dan trued it on Friday…it was out of true by Saturday), and last but not least, I stressed about my ongoing ‘necessity’ of purchasing plane tickets and replacement bike parts that I can’t afford (in this case shifting cables and lube).

While sitting on the bus (I’m on the bus to the airport right now), stressing about bike parts I need from QBP, trying to remember who I need to call about the Garmin and ipod, I recognized that the more worrying you do in regards to menial tasks and physical objects, the less time and energy you have for free thought. Creativity, daydreaming, and wonder are more important than thinking about all that other crap, at least in the developed world where you don’t have to worry about malaria or starving to death.

Truly creative people are so absent-minded and forgetful because they’re occupied with actual thought. While most are stressing about the grocery list or remembering to change the oil in the car, creative people are wondering why it’s necessary that all the seats on the bus face the same direction or how a dragonfly’s wings work.

The world needs both: people who think about tangible things and people who wonder, but I believe we’d be better off by doing more of the later. I know I’m much happier when I spend time daydreaming than when I stress about details.

Moving on, I had a fairly good week of training and rest. I could have done with more rest. I did the Bus Stop ride on Tuesday, which was my biggest mistake. I pulled off with like 20 minutes to go but the damage was done. I should have rested after Philly on Sunday and the travel day on Monday. I went to the sauna on Monday and Tuesday to finish off my month membership at the rec center. Both times felt surprisingly easy and restful, unlike the normal suffering to which I grew accustomed.

Wednesday I rested and Thursday I went hard and did VO2 intervals with Matt. Despite being tired, my overall average power for the intervals was the highest they’ve ever been at altitude. So I haven’t declined from a peak yet, which is good news.

Friday I rested, Saturday I raced…for five minutes during the Sunshine hill climb. I pulled out a mile in, realizing I was being stoopid and that if I wanted a result at Nature Valley I better stop before I did more damage. Instead of finishing the race I got a free massage at Boulder Center for Sports Medicine from Kate Dean, rode to Safeway for a huge sandwich, then went home and sat in bed while eating the sandwich and watching a movie. I slept for almost 12 hours that night. Matt won the hill climb and Nick took second.

I felt better on Sunday for the North Boulder Park crit but my mind wasn’t in it. It was a flat, technical course that I’d never done before and a dangerous break got away in the first 7 minutes. I took pulls and did some chasing but my lack of cornering prowess that day kept me from doing any real damage. Once it was apparent that the break was gone for good, I lost all motivation, which made me corner even worse. I spent half the race covering my own damn gaps after every corner. It was very frustrating. I felt like I was driving a tractor.

I pulled out with 15 minutes to go once my motivation to continue riding for 4^th place diminished completely. Usually I’ll race hard for 20^th, especially if there’ money, but today I just wasn’t feeling it. You only have so many motivated days a year for racing hard. It’s not necessarily wise to force one out when it isn’t crucial.

It never feels good to DNF, especially twice in a row, but the extra rest was needed. Assuming I remember how to steer my bike by Wednesday night and with the strength my legs have had the past couple weeks, Nature Valley should go pretty well.

I went a lap early. A gad damn lap early! I’ve never been especially good at math, though simple addition usually isn’t a problem. During the race, having lost count of the laps with a few to go, I fumbled through my computer screens to find out that we’d raced 87 miles. “So that means that we have two more laps,” I thought. “Because two times 12 (mile-laps) is 24. And 24 plus 87 is 122.” This is not correct. By the way.

The roar of the crowd yesterday was unlike anything I’ve heard before. I could feel the boom of screams and yells in my chest, and as I attacked to the finish line from the field on that penultimate lap, at first thinking “Wow I’m fast! No one is even close behind anymore!,” the crowd helped turn my legs over even quicker. Then, as I continued passing dropped guys from the break, I realized that up ahead the remaining breakaway wasn’t slowing down after the finish line. My heart sank. Okay, do or die now. I went even harder to latch on the back just at the top. I could have drifted back into the field and rested my legs for that last lap and still had enough to given anyone a run for their money at the podium, but the excitement and adrenaline had me do otherwise.

In hindsight I should have just sat up right then and there, but who knew what was going to happen? We could have stuck it had there not been quite the large number of guys left in the field to chase us down. If the group had split over the climb that second to last time up, maybe they wouldn’t have had the organization to bring us back.

I’ll start at the beginning. And the beginning always starts with breakfast. I woke first when Allen shook my leg, second when Joe yelled at me to get up, and then finally a third time when Joe coaxed me out of bed with the bribe of a free meal.

There was another buffet going on downstairs, this time in the conference room specifically for the racers. Well, for the pro teams actually. Us worthless amateurs had to pay…as if I was going to do that. Diego, Leo, and Victor were already down there and Leo had snuck in (sort of) and was eating food off of Diego’s plate. I was a bit more bold and walked in like I was supposed to be there. I piled a few plates with eggs, sausage, my own oats, peanut butter, and yogurt mixture that I’d prepared the night before, and a large omelet with all the omelet ingredients available. I ate just enough to not feel sick. Perfect.

We rode down to the course  at 11AM and were already drenched in sweat by the time we got to the top of the Manayunk Wall, from where the race started. It was hot and humid, though not quite as sweltering as the day before. There was even a chance of thunderstorms, which I hoped would hold off until the group of 200 was whittled down quite a bit. The descent would be sketchy if wet.

Like I just mentioned, the race started at the top of the Manayunk Wall, which is a 2 to 2.5-minute climb that has pitches of up to 16%. It’s lined with thousands of fans, some slightly less drunk than others, and all screaming at the tops of their lungs. I’ve never experienced that level of cheering/sheer madness before. Even the start was a rush as we rounded a corner and headed down hill. Most of the 12-mile course was lined with people. Lemmon hill was packed to the brim too.

I sat mid-pack for the first couple laps, not doing a very good job moving up for the Manayunk but usually getting up into the top 30 by the top. I missed a large split that went at the end of the second lap. It was pretty worrisome actually, because most of the favorites and just about every big team was had representatives in it. I feared the race was over. The 20 guys that got away at the top of the climb had 40 seconds on us, plus another 10 riders had broken away on the flat section before the split happened. So now there were 30 guys up the road.

Not to worry. Olheiser, Barry, and a handful of other guys got off the front a few kilometers before the Manayunk in attempts to bridge up there. I came across to them on the climb and after some work on the descent and flat section, we made it into the split’s caravan and into the group, just as another guy crashed in front of some cars. There were crashes everywhere today. The feed zone was mayham, guys were going down on the descent, the strung-out tailwind section, the climb…everywhere.

I looked around the group I was in and knew the large breakaway would come back. We had 30 guys and all of the contenders in the group. Unfortunately another 30 came back on later that lap. But now, half way into the race, positioning would be quite a bit easier leading into the climb.

The 10-man break split apart eventually and reshuffled with guys bridging up there at some point. I’m not sure when this happened, but a mostly new group of a dozen or so riders were up the road with somewhat fresher legs.

Side story in the race: I’d say one of my favorite moments of Sunday was when Cole House’s seat fell off. He’d crashed earlier, judging from all the road rash and torn shorts, and was standing up in front of me out of the saddle when his seat just fell off onto the ground to my left. I yelled at him that it fell off, and assumed he heard me because he kept standing up for what seemed like an unnecessary amount of time to stretch his legs. But he sat back down (hard) on the seatpost and let out a yelp. Race over. I laughed. Sorry Cole but how could I not? That’s cartoon material right there.

Laps five, six, seven, and eight were pretty chill in my books. I sat near or on the front on the climb with no difficulties at all. I managed to get enough water in the feed zone to feel too full, and my food stock was holding strong. With just under two laps to go (at the time I though we just had one) we began bearing down on the remaining eight or ten riders up the road. Half a lap later they had like 30 or 40 seconds at the base of the Manayunk. This was shortly before I attacked.

Going up the base of the climb, I wondered why we weren’t going all out yet. Was everyone really this timid about going too early? I’m usually not timid about going early, so I went “apeshit” according to Matt. But of course I realized my mistake and had to overcome quite the mental blow to find the strength to do that one true last lap. At the top of the climb I struggled to hold Elbowz rider Eric Marcotte’s wheel on the descent. I took a few corners too slow and had to do a couple keg-sapping sprints to catch the four riders left in the breakaway, which included Chad Beyer (Champion Systems) Scott Zwizanski (Optum) and Bruno Langlios (Garneau)–he was also the KOM winner and still riding like a beast unleashed.

We only had 12 more miles, but I was out of water and food, my legs were still acidic from the climb attack, and I was nearly void of mental stamina. I struggled to pull through and had to sit on a bit for longer than I wanted, but luckily the guys let me rest a bit and no one yelled at me to take pulls, which is more than I can say I did about 15 minutes later when one rider was too gassed to take continuous pulls.

But, for the most part the break worked very well together over those last 10 miles and our gap went back up to 30 seconds from 20 that we had at the top of the Manayunk. I knew we’d need at least 30 seconds at the base of the climb to hold off the guys in the peloton that final time up, and also knew that there would probably be a concerted chase effort if the group was as large as it was the previous lap. My only hope was that it had broken up that penultimate climb. It had not and there were still 40 guys left in the peloton.

Doomed with 3 or 4K to go. Zwizanski in orange, me on the right in yellow/black, Marcotte behind me, Beyer behind him, and Bruno tucked behind Zwizanski. UHC did the lions share of the work to bring us back, then Optum took over when it was obvious we were done for, in order to give their man Anthony a lead out to the base of Manayunk.

As we came into the town of Manayunk we could feel the peloton breathing down our necks. I attacked. Bruno attacked. I attacked a few more times and then it was over with less than 2K to go. I looked back and saw Optum lined out with Zirbel crushing the front in an all out kamikaze pull. They charged past on the left as we went up a slight rise. I didn’t even latch onto the back in time, because they were going balls deep, and I went from the very front of the race to the very back (of the guys still in contention. Only 67 finished).

My shot at glory was over but I wasn’t done yet. I went around the three 90-degree corners in Manayunk and headed up the climb for the last time, intent on catching at least a few guys that had just been hanging on all day. I grabbed a beer feed from the crowd and pounded about a quarter cup of warm beer, immediately feeling it burn in my chest, wondering if it was actually a strong mixed drink. The crowd didn’t care that I wasn’t in the lead and gave me a huge cheer the entire time as I continued to grind out a hard pace and pass by a few stragglers. I crossed the line 36^th, 1:11 down on the winner Kiel Reijnen of UHC.

I was pretty bummed at the finish, though I received quite a few congratulations on my effort and the good show I helped put on. If anyone knows where I can find the TV footage let me know!

While riding the break that last lap was certainly exciting, it wasn’t what I came to Philly for. I came to get a damn result. I know I could have been in the top five that last time up. And yes, maybe I’m being arrogant but I still think I had a shot at the win even though Keil was absolutely flying that day. What a race though. Hands down the most exciting race I’ve ever done. The crowd, the intense climb, and the huge prestige of the race just made it an absolute blast. I knew about this race even before I was a cyclist. To get a chance to race it was a big deal for me.

After the race I rode down to PennAC on Boathouse Row to check out my old rowing club. The guys there used to talk about the race and I remember discussing how cool it would be to do something like that (back in 2005 during my rowing days). The boathouse was closed though.

That night, we went over to eat a magnificent surf and turf dinner at a fire station.  Victor, Leo, and Olheiser spent the drive there and back farting on each other, during a heated debate Leo and Victor had about who was darker (they’re both Hispanic). We got a few crappy beers from the most ghetto liquor store any of us had been too and headed back to the hotel lobby to hang out with any fellow racers who’d be seen with us, where I saw Morgan was busy chatting up some girls. Not surprising at all.

I have to say, for a composite team, we had a phenomenal race. With five guys in the main group (Barry, Olheiser, Diego, Adam, and myself) we placed between 15^th and 36^th. This was better than quite a few of the pro teams. Andrew, Leo, and Victor did a terrific job getting bottles, which was no easy task since Joe drew the worst caravan spot possible (the last car at position 24). Joe did a good job keeping things in line the days before and the day of the race, while Allan worked tirelessly as well and organized a good crew out in the feed zone as well, including himself. The Nutela on bread was a great idea. We just needed a slower feed zone for it to work!

I’m hoping I can adjust back into the real world for a week before I head off to Nature Valley next Monday. I’ll be guest racing with Full Circle and gunning for that best amateur jersey, as well as the win on that final circuit race. The Stillwater crit is like a miniature Philly actually, except with zero flat. I think I’ve done everything needed to show I’ve got what it takes except for getting a big win. I can feel it coming though. It’s on the verge.

This is how my voyage to Philadelphia unraveled yesterday, going from the best to worst kind of transportation: bike–>bus–>airplane–>car…more car–>some more car–>holy shit storm more car.

FRIDAY

I woke early on the morn of May 31st, excited for the day of travel and hungry for the race. Actually I wasn’t hungry yet. I was still pretty full from the pad thai the night before. I’ve been fighting fantom sore throats and colds for the past couple days, almost scaring myself into sickness on more than one occasion. So Adelaide’s suggestion of pad thai was exactly what I needed to mentally fight off whatever it was that was getting at me. The combination of cock sauce, chicken, shrimp and lots of noodles did the trick and now I’m firing on all levels, whatever that means. Probably vomit + diarrhea + sneezing + orgasm all at once. So basically a normal orgasm.

Speaking of firing, I’m racing with the Firefighter’s team, which is based out of Washington. Or Sweden. Or maybe it’s an East Coast team from Mexico/CA. I’m not sure. We have riders from everywhere. Here’s our roster:

Mike Olheiser of Cash Call (California)

Adam Carr of 1K2Go (California)

Andrew Seitz of Panther (East Coaster)

Diego Milan formerly of Aqua & Sapone, among others (Spain) Check out his website. My respect for him just doubled due to the fox pic.

Victor Ayala of Firefighters (Mexico)

Leo Don’t know his last name from Mexico? Leo where you from?

Barry Miller of Firefighters (just came back from Sweden but he’s from the East Coast)

Kenneth Peterman of Rio Grande (Colorado)

Team Manager: Allan Wahlstrom of Tri Cities, Washington

Director Sportif: Joe Holmes of Bremerton, Washington. I mean BAINBRIDGE. #upgrade #isolated #ridingwithwinger

But without farther adieu (with an A not a U and as in distance not extent–because it was a LONG trip), I’ll bring us back to the traveling.

Adelaide and I set off  to the bus station at 6:40AM on Friday. I strapped my Pika pack to my back and Adelaide carried my backpack. Luckily it was a strong headwind for the first 20 minutes and a nice crosswind for the second 20 minutes. Gotta get those legs opened back up. I packed my bike at the bus stop, said goodbye to Adelaide, and hopped on the bus. I fell asleep in the back and was woken up by a nice woman when we got to the airport. This is usually what happens. One time I fell asleep heading the other way and the bus driver had to walk all the way back to wake me up when we reached the end of the line.

The flight was good. I slept for almost all of it.

I got my bike at bagage claim and waited for Allen to pick me up. An hour later I was still waiting, watching a fat little traffic cop waddle around with his chest/stomach puffed out, yelling at cars to move along now, bah ya here? The car rental place had our passenger van for us, it was just 100 miles away. So Allan ended up in a small SUV. This could prove difficult transporting eight guys and eight bikes.

But we didn’t have to worry about that just yet. I was the only one Allen needed to pick up at the moment. He finally got to me and we drove downtown to the fire station. One of the firemen was retiring that day and the celebration was just about to get underway. I’m not entirely sure why we stopped there. I think it was mainly to pick up someone’s bike. An hour later and we took off to New Jersey, where Allen would drop me off at our host house. Hmm. New Jersey? I guessed that the state of Pennsylvania must have been all full.

Two hours later and my mouth was getting pretty dry. I hadn’t drank much all day and had now been without food for like three hours. Yeah, I know. It was rough. We drove around the countryside looking for the host house and calling everyone on the team in attempts to find it out if it was #25 or #26. Either way we were screwed because the population of the town we were in was most likely equal to the number of smashed armadillos on the side of the road. I mean this as in there weren’t many houses out there. I realize this simili is confusing because you might assume that the number of smashed armadillos was high. This is actually what I mean. Seeing 50 smashed armadillos would be a high number, though that would be a very small town population. This is what I was going for. In actuality I didn’t see any smashed armadillos so in the end this comparison doesn’t really work. On a similar but different note, I did see a small muskrat/hedgehog-like animal on the side of the road today. He was eating some grass and gave me the stink eye as I rode by.

Back to driving through the lush forests and past the hillbilly shacks and gigantic Wall Street mansions of New Jersey:

Allen, who is an extremely kind and mellow fellow, decided to say fuck it and gave up the search, though he didn’t use that sort of language (yet), and we set off in search of food instead. I slowly realized that, yes, we were going to get food but it was going to be on the way to the JFK airport to pick up Diego, who was coming in from Spain. Okay not too bad. Little did I know, JFK airport was in a different state. Actually I did know that but it sounds funnier if I don’t. What I didn’t know was that it would take us another two and a half hours to get there.

We got turned around somewhere, hit Brooklyn, hit Coney Island, continued not seeing any signs of life other than cars and semis, and finally got to the airport. With some highly skilled packing, we managed to get three bikes, three humans, and a good amount of luggage into the SUV. Back there amongst the baggage, Diego sat intertwined with handlebars and wheels prodding him from every direction. It was now 10:30PM. Probably 4:30AM his time.

At last we stopped to get food just before midnight at a big Turnpike convenient stop. The food prices were outrageous, as was the cholesterol and saturated fat. I got the healthiest, least caloric thing I could find, which was two slices of pizza. It just made me hungrier.

The plan to drop me off at the hidden host house was scrapped, and instead I would stay with Allen, Joe, Diego, and Leo at the race hotel back in Philly. I liked this plan…I like this plan a lot. Mainly because I like continental breakfasts. I’ll share a bed with Joe Holmes anytime if it involves free breakfast sausage. No pun intended.

After some more turn arounds, we made it to the hotel just as the clock struck 1AM. Lights were finally out by 1:30 or so. It sounds worse than it really was, since for me it was really only 11:30. But still, a 40 minute bike ride, an hour bus ride, a four hour plane ride, then almost eight hours in the car adds up to a long day.

SATURDAY

I woke at the crack of 9:48, 12 minutes before the continental breakfast closed down (I assumed). I ran downstairs and found the small room where the free buffet was. Sausage, bacon, eggs, pancakes, bagels, just your normal stuff. I made a plate and sat down at a table by myself. The table was set up with nice glasses and napkins, strange for a buffet table I thought. I made it most of the way through the pancakes before I noticed that the other patrons of the buffet were being given what resembled bills by who resembled waiters. Oh shit.

The free buffet was not free. It was $13. My heart began pounding as I realized I’d be dining and dashing, because there’s no way I was paying $13 for what should be a free, crap buffet. I got another plate as I planned. A waiter came over to me, asking if I’d like anything to drink. “No, nope, no thanks!” I said. A few moments later, pretending I was just getting up for coffee, I made my escape. I filled my coffee, took an approving sip, nodding that yes, this was fine coffee, looked out of the corner of my eye to see if anyone was watching, then went for it.

I got past the hostess at the front without incident, saying thank you and smiling on my way past. I continued on through the lobby, feeling lazer beams in my back as I went. At the elevator I mixed in amongst a large crowd of racers and other people, then slipped behind a pillar while I waited. I was on the sixth floor and there was no way I was walking, even in these circumstances. The elevator took forever but I got in, ran to my room, and slammed the door behind me, making the buffet food taste even better.

Since the night before was cut so short and because the other guys had to drive in from way up north, our ride was pushed back to 12PM or later. For me, riding was the only thing on the agenda. For Allen and Joe there was also a thick stack of meetings, finding 1,000 race bottles, race food, switching out the SUV for a passenger van, etc. The other guys had to move all their stuff too, since the host house wasn’t going to work out due to the vast distance between it and the course, plus I think it was only equipped with a single bed (California King) and a small hammock. I heard Olheiser claimed the bed and made the rest of the guys sleep on top of each other in the hammock.

With the cluster fuck the previous day and all the logistics to take care of today, it didn’t take long for the team to start trembling in fear of Joe Holmes. I reassured them that no, he wasn’t angry, no he doesn’t despise you, yes you should stop crying because this is actually him in a happy mood. It takes a while to get to know Joe Holmes. I think it took me the better part of three years. But once you do, things actually run pretty smooth. And just so all you HB guys know, Joe is alive, doing well, and hasn’t changed a bit. Example: directing Allen on how to fill bottles—“What you wanna do is fill it to here (pointing on the bottle and looking Allen directly in the eye, pausing for effect). This is important now. You wanna top it off with a little bit of water, got that? #holmeswisdome

Riding the course was hands down the most stressful ride I’ve ever done. Our mechanic, Jeff, navigated us through the busy streets of Kelly Drive, cursing loudly at cars and yelling LEFT or RIGHT every few seconds. We hopped up on sidewalks, bike paths, went down one-way streets. The traffic was heavy but gave us our space since there were dozens of other teams out there too. The riding was hot and sweaty. My sauna training has already paid off. I felt good and rested, opened up even. I’m insanely excited about tomorrow. I almost never get this excited about races. It’s hard not to with all the commotion here at the race hotel. It’s packed with hundreds of racers. The lobby is crowded and noisy with men’s and women’s teams coming and going. It’s a who’s-who of US cycling. And little old Kennett made it here somehow! I’m not the only rift raft though. They added 10 amateur teams in the last week to make the race have 194 riders. I predict it will be half that before half the race is over.

Also here is Morgan Schmidt, who I ran into at the Chipotle right next door to the hotel (I’ve been there twice now already). It’s a strange lifestyle to see a certain group of friends only in far off cities in random Chipotles and hotel lobbies. He was with Freddie Rodriguez, who just won the national championships last week and who I’d just been reading about in Velonews and Cyclingnews. Velonews had a pretty bold article, suggesting Freddie to be an unclean rider solely because he raced in an unclean erra. Freddie used Cyclingnews as an outlet to defend himself. It was interesting to see the two competing news sources (both with two opposite stances), who were basically creating news, not reporting it, and then even stranger to sit down with Morgan and Freddie for burritos after just reading about it.

I spent the rest of the day in bed writing this blog, eating more Chipotle, and trying to relax amongst a day of craziness. Tomorrow I unleash. Time to go downstairs and get a beer with Allen to wash down this last burrito and cradle me to sleep. In fact, I may get one more burrito. Still hungry.