Race Report: 2013 NCC Tour of the Hilltowns

I drove out from under threatening clouds portending the first rain in eight days, but they cleared by the time I got off the Mass Pike, and we had a sunny, warm day for racing.

Some background: This was a what-the-heck race, one I'd never done, never even rode the course. I only gave a cursory look to the route profile, noting the one big climb. I hadn't planned on doing much road racing this month, as riding time was reduced by my recent move, but I found myself riding well this week, after some time off. Worth noting. I was on the wait list, then got in when the club added another field—35 and over, thank you very much.

After a long, detailed and informative talk from the promoter, we were off for a six-mile neutral start, during which I had to dig deeper than expected a couple of times to keep position. The group was strong! I was consistently in third to tenth position in a field of thirty, and my pre-race jitters passed. I closed gaps, covered early attacks, and generally felt like a competent racer.

We did a long, twisty, scary descent on a rough road. How do you make chip-and-seal pavement worse? Frost heaves and bad patches, of course. I tried my best to follow the lines of the three NCC riders, whom I figured knew the road well. I also left some space in front of me.

We passed a few dropped riders from the field ahead, then swung around for the Hawley Road climb—the one that looked like a big gash in the middle of the course profile, and it got challenging pretty quickly. I foolishly said “nice riding with you guys.” Never, ever broadcast any weakness, perceived or real, I said to myself later. Even my own ears shouldn't hear that. I decided to go all in on the climb, give it everything I had, then concern myself with what's next after the summit, based on some pretty good advice from strong-man Bob of the Tuesday crew. Still, the pack climbed away from me. I wasn't spit right out, but rather digested slowly. I'm not sure which is worse. Speaking of digestion, I'd over-eaten in the first 20 miles, and I was paying on the climb. The road kept coming, each curve revealing another sinew of pavement reaching upward, littered with widely spaced riders. My digestive distress persisted, and I didn't desire any of the food or drinks I'd brought along. I might as well have fueled with Four Loko and Marlboros, I chuckled, based on the way I was riding and feeling.

The follow car crept up behind me like a reaper, then held off when I found some extra power. It didn't last, however.

Over the top, it got lonely. I began to wonder about these Massachusetts riders—does EPO occur naturally, like fluoride, in the water rolling down these Berkshire streams? These boys can climb! Hairy legs and absence of team kits do not indicate a lack of ability, and I briefly felt like a poseur. That didn't last as I had more practical concerns. I began working with another rider who had flatted. Knowing the power of my spoken words, I said to him—but more for me--”I'll give it what I have.” Soon we were cruising in the high 20s, both of us taking efficient pulls. We picked up another rider and got a strong rotation, just as the men's masters and women's 1/2/3 field passed. I shouted out some encouragement to the Keltic and Farm Team riders in the small leading group. What can I say? I'm a fan blessed with a great view.

I got snapped off the back after a bit, and again rode alone. I'd never completely recovered from the Hawley Road climb, but I still thought I'd made the right choice to go all in. My climbing and recovery aren't where I'd like them to be, but I coached myself to continue on, figuring I'd build endurance and persistence--plus get back to my car under my own power. I didn't quite hate riding or racing at that moment.

The race finishes with a climb of two miles back up Route 9 to Windsor. Some more small groups passed, and I passed a few solo riders. My speed was way down, and the headwind was picking up. It's times like these that test a rider's mind. I did my usual mental tricks or fuzzy math: “I can ride X miles pretty much anytime, anywhere.” I reeled in a couple riders on the climb, one of whom was a guy I worked with earlier. I passed him right at one kilometer to go. The mind gets a boost, which translates to the body in some strange alchemy that probably will never be measured. That was the longest kilometer of the day—much longer than they look on TV, by the way. I finished just a hair over three hours, which had been my target. In our field of 30, I ended up 18th out of 26 finishers. Not great, but no bike or major physical problems, no DFL. I used every gearing possible on my bike, from low to high.

Why do I do it? Why pay money and pin on a number, all the while knowing you're saying yes to pain? Well, it's not pain anymore. It's just how I feel on a bike. The power of words again. Of course, there's always the anticipation of the next race, in this case next Saturday's Hunter Mountain Classic, 78 miles with three major climbs. There's also the common explanation of the sense of accomplishment, which I agree with, but it goes deeper than that. It's soul medication, self-administered via the pharmacy of the body. I took Route 20 home, and enjoyed the sun over the Berkshires, looking richer than all of the over-saturated photos on Instagram. Every song my iPod shuffled sounded amazing, and I heard the music with an uncommon depth. I drew deep, steady breaths that seemed to reach my fingers and toes. I felt at peace.

Thanks to the Northampton Cycling Club, marshals, volunteers, police and EMS for an excellent day in the sun.

Ride data here, on Strava     

Official results here

Northampton Cycling Club

Pace Line

The man on the bicycle is unconcerned

with the rain-slick asphalt and the brakes

that no longer work; rather, he is focused

on the wheel ahead and holding that line on

the black ribbon of road under his tires.

The man on the bicycle will hold that wheel, then

take the lead when honor and obligation require

and part the wind for his nameless accomplices

trailing behind in the water's spray, their tacit

agreement of mutual aid until the road tilts up

or someone bows out, whichever comes first.

The man on the bicycle knows that pain and

suffering are labels, words he chooses to not use

for his circumstances as his body protests his

mind's insistence with shocks of silent fire

the roadside observer will never know.

The man on the bicycle knows the absurdity of

this act, riding a circuit on a day better suited

for ducks, but the rain hits his number, pinned

to him, his whole identity now this, as he and

the others balance on their machines, legs as

fulcrums carrying them on until the white line

slides beneath them and they go slack with

ratchet clicks and beached-whale gasps as

their wheels slow and stop and they

become ordinary again.

Ride report: Alcove Reservoir/Greene County

Saturday was wet and warm; Sunday promised to be windy and cold. My alarm woke me up (again... what ever happened to sleeping in?) and I managed to get to Delmar in time for the ride. Soon enough, eleven of us were rolling along, inside the deceptively quiet tunnel of tailwind. To Art's credit, we finished in a tailwind as well. In between was another story.

Michelle said I ride like a mountain biker. The "real" mountain bikers in the group told me that's a compliment. I'll go with that. Seems like the universe is telling me to get out on the dirt more.

We were on parts of the CBRC race course, plus some other cool roads. I'm in this area fairly regularly, but some of these roads were new to me. We turned off of 143 and went through the tiny town of Alcove, with its general store/post office crowding the narrow road. We rose above the reservoir, looking positively oceanic with its rows of whitecaps.

We rose up some cracked tarmac. I was a bit behind the group, and got treated to a Graham Watson-worthy sight of riders climbing the hill while late fall leaves swirled around them.

I figured out that we were doing town-line sprints, after like the third one. I jumped first, into the wind, uphill, feeling sheepish about it, since I thought no one else was going. Sure enough, Doug came around and got me by a bike length or so. Note to self: once you decide to go, go. Another note to self: you probably couldn't have given it much more, since your heart rate was 172.

Mixed in some dirt roads, too. I felt pretty confident. Heck, after my so-so cyclocrossing, "just riding" felt pretty good.

Brownies in the parking lot, courtesy of Kim. I'll burn off those calories... but not in that century next week. I'll have to wait until 2009 for a triple-digit day.

Race Report: Bethlehem Cyclocross

The alarm goes off Sunday morning. It's cold outside. I'm snoozing away, thinking, "hey, it's only 20 bucks, I can blow it off and sleep in." (I did hang out with my rock'n'roll buddies a bit later than planned.) Then, it's "OK, I'll get out of bed, make some tea. Hey... it's not that cold out! I can do anything for 25 minutes, right?"

The bike's on the car, I'm on the way, thinking, yeah, I feel pretty good. I get there, do some warm-ups, a couple laps around the course. At that moment I'd never loved Schenectady more. I was pining for that sandy, well-drained soil of the September race. Not to be found in soggy Bethlehem. (Nothing like its namesake, that's for sure.) I'm pedaling ragged squares in my lowest gear, following the slithery tire tracks in wet grass. Legs are burning already. Not good. Should have gotten up earlier for a proper warm-up. Maybe next time.

I see Matt. I see Art later. He says something like kick Matt's ass. Heh. You're a mountain biker, he says. I'm like, yeah, I guess I am. Cool.

I see a gal on an orange Kona. I say, hi Rachel. Jenn says hi. Kinda surprised her. She ends up on the podium later!

I'm lining up with some of the Tuesday night fast crew: Jeff, Alan, Andy and Jay. Whoa. We all have numbers pinned on. This is different.

And we're off. Much faster than my warm-up laps. Some guy crashes right in front of me at the barriers. Then the off-camber bit. Art says good job; a millisecond later I almost eat it as my front wheel slips. We're on the flat. I pass Andy and some other guy, but not for long. That gravel ride-up becomes a run-up as I lose traction. Oh well, at least it's the back side of the course. No spectators. Then the "real" run up. Holy shit. Super muddy. OK, lap one done.

The course gets sloppier with each lap. My pedals get loaded with mud. (Note to self: ask for eggbeaters for CX-mas.) I'm stomping on them, trying to get the mud out. Kinda hard to weight the outside pedal in a turn when you're not attached to it! I'm keeping Andy in sight, barely. There's that damn run-up. There's Art again. There's Barry with the camera. I try to smile. Probably means I'm not running hard enough.

Lap three. That wood fire smells great. Or are my legs really burning? What's simmering in those crock pots?

Lap four. I'm gaining on someone. Yes! Nice form. Good cadence. It's the future of the Luna Chicks! Yes, the rider in my sights is a girl of about ten. Ethical questions abound. This is a race, should I slow down? What will people think if I pass her? Is anyone looking? Hey, is that her dad? Is that Barry with the damn camera again? Did she lap me? What happened to Andy? When do we eat? I look behind me and see no other riders, adult or child-sized. I ease up. Yes, it is her dad running alongside. I assume an exaggeratedly relaxed position on my bike so any bystanders will know that I'm No Longer Racing. The finish line is in sight. Dad's going crazy. Others are clapping. More cowbell! I take my hands off the bar, not for an ironic hands-in-the-air salute, but to clap for the rider in front of me, who rolls across with grim determination, not even looking up. Somebody sign her up.

I see the Tuesday night guys after I finish. We're all covered in mud, and we're all smiling, and saying stuff like, damn, that was hard, but it was fun. They're ready to hose off the bikes and get in some road miles. I have to bow out... my other life is calling. Six hours of drummer auditions.

Oh, I came in third from last. But my technique's improving. And I just may have seen the future of cyclocross.

Ride report: Darkness closing in

Yeah, I rocked the bib shorts today. And the forecast was mostly right... mix of sun and clouds. They left "darkness" out of that little concoction. Whoops. I had a meeting that went way too long. (Principals love to hear themselves talk.) In the bibs and out the door at four. Blah. Then I broke the little screw thing off the valve in the parking lot. Blast! Good thing my spare tube was powdered up and ready. Anyway. Rode exactly one hour. It was like a creepy criterium race of sorts. I was off the front, being chased by darkness, who closed the gap in the last 5K. He can really dig deep late in the season. I didn't even hear him coming. Oncoming cars were turning on the high beams, presumably after seeing my feeble LED flashing like some sort of rabid beastie. Luckily, the roads were smooth and quiet, with little traffic, and I rolled back into the lot intact. I need better lights. Still, that's one more ride and one less spin class.

I picked up the 'cross and got religion!

(Note: I'm NOT in the picture at the left. I aspire to that level of technique.)

Sunday was my first cyclocross race, in Schenectady's Central Park. An AWESOME way to spend a Sunday morning. It was the hardest 35-minute ride of my life. No heart rate monitor needed to tell that story. Let's start at the beginning.

The pack went off like a bunch of wet cats. Not like those comparatively leisurely road-race starts. We were lined up 24-wide in front of the Music Haven stage. We had to funnel down to about six feet pretty quickly. OK, sure, in races you need to be aggressive, but I decided to err on the side of caution, what with this being my first 'cross race and all. I found a spot and started cruising. Oh, and did I mention I overslept and didn't get to scope the course, or warm up properly? I found myself leap-frogging a couple of riders. I'd blow by them on the straights, then get bogged down at the dismounts as they pirouetted over the huge tree and the barriers. Whatever progress I was making was pure brute force, not finesse. We were all strung out by that point, maybe the second lap or so. A helpful CBRC guy standing by one of the run-ups heckled us mightily each time we went by. It was great! I felt much more comfortable than I expected, with the possible exception of those remounts. Well, the jewels are still intact.

I was seriously wondering if this would be a DFL. I ended up sprinting for 16th place. I heard a rider coming up behind me with just a few hundred feet to go. Once my front derailleur cooperated I was able to stay ahead of him. Road riding is good 'cross training!

I have a decent amount of power, but I really want that finesse and agility. I watched some other groups at the barriers and was mightily impressed. It can look like one fluid motion. Maybe I need to reprogram my internal iPod with some Tchaikovsky or something. Or just practice more.

Race #2, this Saturday morning in Troy!