The Mad Madder's Blog

It cost how much to do this?!!! | April 13, 2010

To say I wasn’t looking forward to racing the Tour of the Battenkill might just be one of the greatest understatements of all time.  I dislike climbing and I have an attention span comparable to that of a child in its terrible twos. The Tour of the Battenkill is long and hilly. But I had registered months ago in a fit of misplaced ambition and my stubbornness would not let me bail.

So I found myself, after a week of torturous anticipation, throwing my ‘cross bike in road disguise on the back of my car, gill-stuffed with spare wheels, a million layer options, and enough Clif electrolyte water to hydrate a small African country. Cambridge Ho!

The Elevate racers were staging out of team rider, Josh’s house, only one mile from the registration area. Generally before a race, I spend time warming up, talking to myself and trying to hide the fact that I’m freaking out. But with a race team comes perks. Julie had graciously offered to work the first feed zone and Josh had arranged for a person to work the second. So I could just pull in Josh’s driveway, kit up, hand over my bottles, give Julie my spare wheels, and be ready to go!

It seemed like only seconds since I’d woken up when the official was giving us our pre-race briefing and the pace car was on its way. I guess I was going to have to race it.

Road racing is weird. There’s no real way to explain how strange it is when a road race starts. You’ve built up all this nervous tension and then you spend the first miles calmly wandering the countryside, chatting with your neighbours, the average pace well below your typical group ride.

We’re racing? Really? Sure this isn’t some twisted unisex speed-dating event? I’ve learned where people are from, what they do for a living, how long they’ve been racing, where they went for breakfast…. To someone used to the mad dash plunge of a tri’s cannon launch or the chaos dash of a 5K start, such a civilized beginning takes some getting used to.

But, after all, it is a race and all civilizations eventually fail.  So after five miles or so of blissful meandering, the first climb.

Oh climbing, thou demon torture! Foul creation of a twisted mind! (or perhaps simply an aggravating battle against gravity and conditioning…) God I hate climbing. But after a winter’s trainer torture and subsequent sessions of climbing repeats, I found myself cresting the top in the first 4 with my legs granting me permission to continue racing. Nice!

Less than 10 miles down, only 50 and change to go. Whoop.

And that’s when a lady in yellow came strolling up the left side of the field, casually asked a rider she knew if she felt like joining her, and walked away from field like she was off to a Sunday picnic. A few failed attempts at reeling her in later and we never saw her again. Ladies and gentleman: We have a winner!

So the race continued…second place had become the new first. And as we challenged climb after climb and dirt section after dirt section, passing riders dropped off earlier fields, I kind of thought second might be within reach.

And then, around mile 30, on a relatively smooth dirt section, I tried to shift gears… And dropped my chain.

ARGH!

I faded to the shoulder, watching the field saunter away. I knew that, with the tempestuous gusts swirling around the course, catching the field right away would be my one and only chance at a top 10 (my race goal).

I reached over and struggled my chain back on, waving aside the wheel vehicle, By this time the field was accelerating out of a corner around 500 meters in the distance. Time to bridge the gap.

Bridging a gap sucks. It sucks the air from your lungs, the heart from your chest. It sucks pain into your legs and across your shoulders. You tug at your handlebars, straining for that extra power, that extra push that can propel you back into the slipstream of the pack. It sears your muscles like a firebrand. But to fail means your race is over and you’ll struggle alone the remaining distance. An unacceptable prospect.

So gap up I did. And found myself, jelly legs quaking, first at the back of the remains of our start pack and soon wormed up to the center to sit firmly in the draft and recover.

Not a moment too soon it turned out, as, just after I settled myself in for my rest, a squirrelly rider took out all four of the riders behind me. All that remained of our start field were thirteen riders (including the missing person off the front).  All I had to do was sit in and stay close, beat three riders and I’d be in the money. Sure. Only that.

We soon entered a rolling dirt section with quality climbs followed by momentum-building descents. A perfect place for my chance at the lead. My mountain biking skills come in handy on descents. When riders less familiar with maneuvering rocks and ruts hit their brakes repeatedly. I pedal the descents and use the thrust up the next rise.

I exited the section with two women ahead of me, and the remains of the pack well behind. But the tormenting winds resurfaced and I was soon sucked back in the mix. We organized a swift rotating pace line and started making time on the lead two racing together ahead of us.

And then the final climb. Six miles out of Cambridge, the remains of the field turned left and left me. I hadn’t anything remaining. I could make it up the climb. I could finish the race. I could be happy with my effort. But I couldn’t go so much as a lick faster and I watched my chance at anything other than a top ten distance itself up the climb. Oh well.

I crested the hill and five surprisingly short downhill miles later I was across the finish line in a respectable 3:25. 9^th. In the money and perfectly happy. After all I had survived respectably and it was almost time for Brew Fest. Life, sometimes, is good.

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