Elkhorn - its business time

Several excellent accounts of the 2010 Elkhorn stage race have been written. Instead of rehashing some of those details, this account will serve to briefly describe a couple of race highlights for me and another couple of incidents that amused me and taught me three valuable lessons. As usual, all that follows was filtered through the Wombo-scope and only fleetingly touches on reality.

OK, so I finished in 38th place overall in 10 hrs 13 mins with about the same time of all the HV finishers except for Gilligan who posted a time about 30 mins ahead of me. Best finish for me was 18th in the crit. The two road stages of 76mi and 100mi included about 10,000ft of climbing, including a brutal 8mi finish to stage 4 that averaged 6%.

‘Climbing insanity’
Overall, I was very pleased with my climbing. This may seem an odd thing to say because I was dropped on all the significant climbs but in each case the damage and time losses were minimized. Learning from past mistakes (see Cannon Dale et al, Journal of Crap Cycling (2010), v700, p1227) I made sure to start each climb in the front 2/3rd of the pack. Instead of red-lining just to keep up, like an ageing porno star, I maintained a good rhythm and paced myself according to HR so as not to blow early. This allowed me to stay with the main group for, typically, ¾ of each climb, and to reach the top in pretty good shape. The challenge now is to find the means to stay with them the entire way up in these races either by increasing power:weight ratio or perhaps by juicing up. The pack was usually not too far ahead and a couple of times we caught them post-climb. It turns out too that I am the fastest descender of the larger blokes (Orca pod).

The final climb of the 100mi stage was a highlight. I was part of a group which had been dropped on the second climb and included about seven Orcas and one skinny dude. We were many minutes down from the front of the race. These were the guys who had dropped me on the final 8 mi climb of stage 1 leaving me 30 secs back. Beating them to the top would advance me in the standings. So, I got to the front behind the lone skinny dude and began to grind away. After a few minutes I looked back to see skinny dude and I riding away from the others. All I had to do was maintain and extend this gap for another 7mi. And you know what – I DID. Skinny dude inched away from me but I finished 2-7 mins ahead of the others, and consequently leap-frogged several of the Orcas in the standings.

That last climb was tough however, and I played mind games with myself to pass the time. The mind games were hard to devise because it is well known that human IQ drops to that of a marine invertebrate the morning after a particularly good New Years Eve shrimp cocktail party. The 3km sign was as welcome as 10 beers at a dysmorphology (ugly person) convention. Further, the 1km was as welcome as finding a gorgeous woman after those 10 beers at the dysmorphology convention. The 200M sign was akin to the joy of making out with formerly dysmorphic, but now stunning, woman. In my mind the seductive clincher was “lets MO tonight”, borrowed from Cosmo magazine. Then I was done and I started making out with cookies, bananas, apples and other potato chips. AA thrust a beer into my hands at the finish line and uncharacteristically, I declined – too shagged from racing 100mi, 6000-odd ft and MOing imaginary stunners.

Takehome message #1 – Climbing with urgency results in temporary insanity.

‘Code brown narrowly averted’
I had three pretty good stages and one absolute shocker. This plummeted me from 36th to 38th overall, goddamnit. I am referring to stage 2, the TT. As you may recall screwing up TT’s is a particular favorite of mine. The trouble started at home when I completely forgot to pack the TT bars. I would have to make do with hands in the drops. The morning of the event I had a light brekky of a banana washed down with Ginger Socks’ Turkish coffee. An exotic delight fo sho. Strong and full flavored. In a move that would have dramatic and unfortunate consequences I WENT BACK FOR SECONDS.

Out on the back deck sipping that second cup, I felt like I was in a grandiose ad for coffee: Here he was, a ruggedly good-looking, broad shouldered bike rider on the back deck surrounded by dramatic snow-tipped mountains. He cups a streaming cup of coffee between two calloused hands and brings it slowly to his movie-star lips. A slight smile escapes as he takes in the aroma of ‘Elkhorn’ coffee (‘Grind your opponents’). He nods contemplatively, lost in the moment thinking, perhaps, of bad habits and nuns. Suddenly, he throws his head back, spreads his arms and spins around……

“The hills are alive…”

Now that I have betrayed my love of musicals, that was the last good thing I have to say about that coffee. John G and I decide to ride the 10 miles to the course. It was a good warm up except for the flat tire suffered crossing the train tracks. We had plenty of time and had the tire changed in a few minutes. Thankfully, I had packed the spare and CO2. It at about this time that the first tummy rumbles began and, like and old man trying to send back soup in a deli, they were persistent. Confident that the porta-loo at the start line would solve my problems, I was not too worried. By the time we reached the start and met up with Brad, diligently doing his warm-up the cramps had set in. OK, not to worry, still plenty of time for the bog.

“I hear the train a coming and its rolling round the bend…….” (Cash)

Unfortunately, there was no sign of a porta-crapper at the start line. Oh.dear.me ! 10 mins ‘til my start and a major crisis was looming. The thought of going ‘Code Brown’ flipped the plastic lid on the big red panic button. Gas station - GOT to find one. A quick stop to ask someone elicted a vague point towards town. I set off riding frantically and, due to occasional cramping, quite erratically. Then there she was, Shell beautiful Shell. I have never been so relieved (ahem) to see a gas station. Time was running out and if I didn’t get to the toilet in the next 30 secs Shell was going to have a cleanup operation of its own to rival BP’s. Asked a leather-clad biker to hold my bike while I dashed in and completed the operation efficiently and with flair. OK, back to the race. Took about 30 secs to return the half mile to the start. It was +10m 45s, my start was 9m 00s. What did that mean? Did I miss my start. FUUUUUUCK. OK, foot down then off. My 15 sec (!) guy was just ahead. Flustered and trying to comprehend what had just happened I got up to speed and tried to get into a rhythm. Got a decent pace and rhythm going but couldn’t see HRM, it was set too far back on the stem and I couldn’t see the figures – bollocks! Seat was set too far forwards as well and felt hunched up – less than ideal. Caught to within maybe 10 yards of 15 sec guy. Then the turnaround and the headwind. Well, the combination of no TT bars, hunched position and inability to see HR and headwind did me in. I lost a lot of ground to rider ahead. The best part was sweeping into downtown out of the wind flying past the storefronts. Ave speed 23.0 mph, elapsed time 29m, recorded time 31 mins.

Takehome #2 - Stay away from pre-race Turkish coffee.

‘Taking the piss’
The concept of mass stopping to piss mid-race was new to me. Always read about it but not witnessed or participated in it. Now I can understand the need to piss eleventeen times during a masters race. After all, that’s a lot of blokes with enlarged prostates pushing on that piss bag. But in a non-master race? Incredibly, the first stop came after about 15 miles. Come on people – take you and your Wal-Mart bladders elsewhere. We want to race. The soft tinkle of falling liquid reminded me of a June-uary day in Portland. This was amusing and made me feel like a real racer but the more remarkable story came from Gilligan later in the Stage 4 race. As told to me, there was this squirrelly rider who rode with a very high cadence. This made him dart all over the place left, right, fore, and aft. There’s always one. Anyway, instead of waiting for the next sanctioned pee break, this joker decides to pee whilst still on the bike. Now, while the PROs may be able to do this without impacting the race in any way – there is a small margin for error. As you can guess, his efforts at directing the stream of salty excreta downwards was only partially successful. Poor Gilligan lamented that sure enough, at one point he tasted salty goodness on his lips. Now, this was not salty taste of fresh sea air (300 mi to the west), nor the much talked about pickle juice but ANOTHER MAN’S PISS.

“Islands in the stream, that is what we are….” (Parton)

Now, while there are many, many thing to experience and experiment within the rich tapestry of life, I would argue that gagging on a fellow riders liquid waste is not one of them.

Takehome #3 – ‘Taking the piss’ means something different in a bike race.

At Elkhorn I learned that doing ones business is part of racing.

Wrapping up PIR for May

Went into the final Masters 4/5 race for May in 5th place overall, just off the podium. Winning the series was in all likelihood out of reach but a strong ride might get me to the podium. The fact that it was Memorial Day had not discernable effect on the field size which, at 36, was its usual dry day size. Daughter came along to watch Dad ride and did her own ‘warm-up’ on her scooter brought along for the occasion.

While chatting with KB during the warm up I spotted Cristina near the tents and diverted over to say hello. To my embarrassment and the hilarity of a great many riders I actually fell off my bike when stopping before her. In my mind I ‘fell with style’ (to borrow from Toy Story) and sustained only some minor elbow damage. Actually it was a blessing because the mechanic in the tent nearby noticed that my front wheel was soft. I had repaired a puncture a couple of days before (instead of replacing the tube itself) and, as a back-up, brought a second front wheel ready to go in case my ‘patch‘ failed. Grinning like a fool at my brilliant foresight, I waddled as best as one could in bib-tastic lycra and bike shoes back to the car to retrieve the spare wheel. All who had spotted my graceless tumble made sure to tell me about it later.

We would be racing clockwise for 14 laps with three sprint primes. The usual suspects; BE, KB, EA and CS and a gaggle of other Team Oregon riders were in the field. As for the race itself, the pace was quite high and the attacks came at regular intervals. I contested only one prime but left the sprint a little too late and managed a POINTLESS 4th (geddit - it was ‘pointless’ because the points only go to third in the primes and therefore 'pointless' because it was all for nothing). I know, I know - hilarious!

OK, now to the final sprint, which without teammates, was going to be tricky. Whom to stalk? This particular decision was not mine to make because coming ‘round the final bend I was stuck on the inside and the dangerous sprinters were on the outside. Crap. I was locked in behind several ‘chicken-legged-cardigan-wearing-nancy-boys’. Now in biggest gear I continued up the inside passing several, all the while yelling ‘on yer inside ya bastad’ in my best Sean Connery (why? because it sounded commanding).

Then in an instant I was clear of the man-sweat and lube-scented masses with the line in sight. TOTALLY on top of the gear and SO out of the saddle I powered onwards. Mr Smith’s booming voice took me back for a brief second to Cherry Pie which reminded me that he was irritating and motivating at the same time. Further energized, I continued stomping enthusiastically.

To my surprise, I cleared the line in second place. Equal best finish at PIR and enough to secure second place for the series. Apparently, a prize awaits. Here’s hoping it’s the new Cadel Evans biography, ‘Angry Mosquito‘. Word is that it is a devastating blow-by-blow account of racing in Italy.