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

Race report: Catskill Divide Road Race, August 19, 2012

Conventional wisdom says train hard, then taper your training before your race or event. Conventional wisdom says get a good night's sleep. In my world, friends speak louder than that wisdom, so when one says “I really want to ride Deerfield... will you ride with me?” and another friend says “Hey, there's this really cool race you'd like,” the answer of course is yes. And yes.

The morning after 55 miles at Deerfield—after wrong turns, route extensions and a trip to the emergency room for a friend's thankfully minor incident--I found myself in Big Indian, in New York's Catskill mountains. After several wrong turns and the distraction of runners, recreational cyclists, and weekenders, my friends and I pulled in and unloaded. The whole thing was remarkably low-key for a road race, with a group of riders so small that the race organizer decided to put us all together at the start—categories one through five, men, women and a solitary junior racer.

This race bills itself as a super-tough dirt-road race that's comfortable on a cyclocross bike—if you don't mind falling way behind riders on road bikes. I chose my road bike, but did not have time to change out my Michelins for tires with a bit more width and puncture resistance. Oh well, throw more wisdom to the wind.

We rolled out, and I felt more twitchy than I'd expected. Maybe it was the recent memory of my friend's crash the previous day. Maybe it was that I was in such proximity to pros—I was hoping my bike-handling would be adequate for our admittedly brief time together before they went up the road at their pace. We rolled out fairly slowly, no doubt because the Pro/1/2/3 guys (all three of them) had two laps to do, not just one like us.

The first climb broke up things. It was hard to tell who was in what field, but I consoled myself by knowing some of the cat fives were behind me. I had a rider in front of me in sight, and a big gap behind. We zig-zagged through a small town, and I had to squeeze between two cars, one on either side of the road, the one on my side not quite committed to either driving or pulling over. Then it was up a sharp dirt climb, where more riders came into view as everyone's pace slowed. I tried to keep a reasonable speed without blowing up. I did reel in a rider within a couple of miles—the junior, who probably hasn't yet worked out how to dole out his energy reserves--then another, which is always good for a little extra shot of motivation.

We had a group of three on another dirt section, and they seemed to know where to go—which was down a tiny, narrow road threaded between a couple of barns. One rider on a BMC flatted, within FEET of the wheel truck. He got back on quickly. We stretched out and bunched up off and on over the next few miles.

The website suggested mountain-bike shoes, should a rider need to run on part of Townsend Hollow Road. “Not me,” I thought. I thought incorrectly. Mr. BMC came around right as a rider ahead of me un-clipped. I was next. I walked about 50 feet, found a flat spot and got back on. My calves and lower back—parts of my body that I generally do not need to tell to shut up—were screaming as I crested the climb, the road filled with soft soil and fist-sized rocks.

The dirt descents were sketchy, more so than what we encounter on our Tuesdays in Rensselaer County. I rode within my ability, which I thought was pretty good, but a couple of guys just bombed right down them. Fearless. My friend Johny K. says the bike wants to stay upright. Me, too. Again, we'd spread out and re-group. One rider seemed a bit frayed: His bike and jersey looked beat up, and he wobbled a bit. Not the best wheel to follow.

We had more of this sort of up-and-down on the dirt fun for the next few miles, and it actually DID feel fun. My what-the-heck attitude at the start had morphed into spirited competitiveness, and my body felt way better than I'd expected, given the previous day's riding. We had a group of three or four: myself, the guy on the BMC, and the squirrely guy. We worked together, in a ragged way, until the last big dirt descent, where they took off. I was on the brakes, trying to balance the relative dangers of speed and an overheated rim from too much braking, which can lead to a blow-out. I passed a few other riders on the way down, and caught sight of my previous partners soon. The wobbly guy's bike sounded like it was about to fall apart, which was more incentive for me to get around him. We picked up our third again and worked together, until the base of the hill, where we came around the noisy bike. His graceless cornering explained it: he was riding on a flat front tire, at speeds pushing 30 mph downhill. We dropped him out of the corner and worked together for the last couple of miles, trading pulls.

I was wondering when the alliance would split. I wasn't wondering too hard, since I had no idea where we were, place-wise. It was just fun. I took what I decided was my last pull, and then came around him about 400 meters out, and sprinted. I don't think he responded, and I'm not sure if it was due to fatigue or disinterest, but for today at least, I gained a place in the finale. Again, fun.

I ended up sixth out of seventeen registrants, fifteen starters, and fourteen finishers. We were only separated by a few minutes. If I hadn't promised to drive my friends to the race in my car, I may have blown off the entire race. I'm glad I didn't. That was one of my best results this year. I'm clawing my way past the middle.

We hung around afterward, and chowed down on a huge container of fruit the organizer provided for us. I talked with some other racers, people on actual teams—not clubs—and heard some great stories. I even got a pair of socks. Hey, it's the little things. Everyone left with something, which is pretty cool. This race is definitely on my calendar for next year. 

Full results

Promoter's website

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.

Race Report: Capital Region Road Race, August 20, 2011

Disclaimer and spoiler: This report will NOT end with me recounting my epic victory salute as I crossed the line ahead of everyone else in my field. Any suspense that you sense in the coming paragraphs will lead to a denouement of a different sort. I'm a dilettante on a bike, a competent racer with decent fitness and varying motivation, still looking to learn by pinning on a number and joining the pack.

I belong to the Capital Bicycle Racing Club, and this is our race. Well, Paul McDonnell, planner extraordinaire, puts it together, and many club members help out with the details: marking the course, sweeping the turns, marshaling, driving pace, and so on. It's a tough course: a twenty-mile loop with two short but steep climbs, with 1300 feet of elevation gain per loop, maxing out at 16 percent.

It's customary for cyclists to self-deprecate about most things, like how much they've been riding (not much), why they are here (it's just training for me) to how well they may do (fair to average). I adopted this posture with a friend, who sarcastically replied, “You're all winners!” She and I know that's not true. There's no running onto the field after the last point for a group hug or pile-on involving all the players. This is a linear sport: a clear beginning and end point, and a time for each rider. For some reason, other endurance sports—running and triathlon—seem to focus more on the act of completing the race. But remember that numbers don't tell the whole story. Racing makes me a better rider... maybe even a better person. Like many things, it tests limits—in our case, strength, endurance and pain tolerance. Even the most competitive rides with friends, up and down the Rensselaer plateau, don't take me to the limits like races do. There's always something surprising, something new.

I've been racing for about five years, and riding anywhere from two to three thousand miles per year—not counting mountain-bike and cyclocross rides. These numbers are not unusual, or even particularly impressive to the crowd gathered in the high-school parking lot last Saturday morning. I'm still a category five rider. Still, technically, a beginner. For this race, I decided to register for the combined cat four/cat five field, a group of more experienced riders. I allowed for the possibility of getting shelled out the back pretty quickly, or just maybe hanging onto the wheels in front of me for a bit. Like a friend says, a racer has to think, “Yeah, I can beat him,” even if it's not likely. The trick is to come back for more even when you've been proven wrong.

The parking lot was full of lean and hungry racers, and enough carbon fiber to build a squadron of stealth fighters. My bike looked a bit welfare among the exotic names, deep-dish rims and high-end components on many machines. No worries, though. Run what you brought.

The field assembled, 75 strong—bigger than the fifty in the cat five. We had a neutral roll-out of three miles, and I once again started too far back. On the plus side, it is a beautiful sight to see dozens of bikes filling the road ahead. I watched a rider from our club seamlessly, almost politely, thread his way up. We ambled along, with a sound like crickets as our chains stopped and our gear cassettes clicked. We were packed in tightly and ready to race, but everyone kept it under control.

The pace car pulled away and the speed increased. I found a good spot in the peloton, near a couple of other CBRC riders. We gingerly negotiated the sharp turns that I'd swept the night before, with that mix of anticipation and dread that always comes. I felt the familiar incline of Tracy Road, the first climb of the lap. The pack shook loose, as riders sat, stood, weaved and gasped at different rates. I pushed to a point just short of wanting to throw up, then notched it back a tiny bit. I kept my head in check, too—it's easy to mentally crack, then physically deflate when riders open gaps on a climb, but I've done this enough to know that I need to ride within myself at these times, do it at my pace, come what may.

A brief reprieve on a downhill, and the chase to close gaps was on. I tucked in behind another rider for a bit, then pulled around to pull. I got in front of him, but he must have sped up, as I felt a very subtle shift in my bike when my rear wheel rubbed his front wheel. I truly thought I was clear. This is a common cause of crashes, but he kept it upright. I hollered a quick apology, and—even more surprising than him not crashing—he said no, it's cool. Whew.

We scrubbed off about 30 mph, then took the hairpin past EMTs and marshals to the wall of Whitbeck Road, the steepest, nastiest quarter mile in Albany County, and we went through our contorted motions again to the top.

Regrouping on the back side of the course, our group increased in size and speed. I actually spun out my 50 x 11 gear as a big rider, unsatisfied with our 20-something pace, went to the front and pulled us at around 33 mph. I wasn't the only one happy about that, I'm sure. Go ahead, buddy. It'll be see ya later when the road tilts up again.

The second lap whittled our group down to seven. None of us knew where we were overall—riders ahead and behind, hopefully more of the latter. I kept a cool head up the climbs again, and we regrouped, all a bit more ragged. Good riders, all—this 4/5 field definitely felt less twitchy than others have.

As we got down to the last few clicks, I decided to sit in until things started happening. Sure enough, the last few little rises caused a few of us to drop off. I just maintained my pace, with a bit of a kick at the end, coming in third out of our group of seven.

The results? 48th out of 75. See results for everyone here. I covered 43 miles in two hours, nine minutes and forty-six seconds. But, like I said, the numbers don't tell the whole story. This was the most raciest race I've been in, as I stayed with others the whole way, rather than getting caught between groups in that weird never-land—a solitary rider, number rattling in the breeze along a quiet road. I hung with experienced, strong riders who knew how to work together. I pushed myself mentally and physically, and I'll bring more to the line next time.

Later, I helped clean up in the feed zone, while two women patiently waited for their significant others to finish. It looked to me like the beverage of choice along that particular stretch of country road was Miller Lite. Funny, I don't remember seeing anyone handing them up during the race...

There were large orange DOT signs along the course: “Bike Race. Be prepared to stop,” intended, of course, for motorists. But it applies to us, too. Our field was strong, and pretty cohesive. No one was slacking. I'm sure, though, that all of us know people who have stopped—stopped racing, stopped riding—for a variety of reasons, from injury, illness, simple burnout, frustration, or countless others. It could be any of us tomorrow. But here, on this day, we're part of it. We're in it. The moment, when it's possible that you might beat that rider, you might close that gap, you might be the strongest in the bunch, or maybe just set a personal record. Finishing upright and intact is always good, too.

Race Report: Pawling Mountain Road Race, Sunday, July 10, 2011

I tried my best to get to bed early, but it didn't happen. My nocturnal habits have returned since the school year ended. Fitful sleep, early alarm. So be it. Sun in the sky at 5 a.m. helped. Loaded up and headed out, two hour drive to a race that would probably take an hour. Oh well--runners travel farther for a 5K.

It was a pretty drive down through Columbia County, taking the Taconic past familiar roads where I've built whatever fitness I have. Hanging with the regulars on Tuesdays this year is definitely encouraging.

I got to Pawling without enough time to ride the course at anything resembling a reasonable pace. There wasn't even enough time to drive it. I did drive in over the last couple miles of the course, which were pretty hairy—a short climb and a twisty descent on rough pavement, with ever-larger mammals jumping out in front of me. I told myself it wasn't an omen.

I signed in and saw a couple other riders from CBRC, made some small talk: Are you ready? Ready as I'll be. Really—what rider says, “Oh yeah, I've been riding lots, and feeling super strong”? I got in a decent 20-minute warm-up, which I figured was enough for an hour-long race. Lots of down-state/NYC/Connecticut club kits, and more women than our boys' club rides usually attract.

Usually, my nerves are at their worst the night before a race. The morning of, not so bad. For some reason, though, I was really nervous rolling up to the start. Not sure why--maybe too much coffee. It thankfully went away once we started riding, as I settled in about 20 riders back in our group of around 50. We had a “neutral start”—no racing right from the line—and I wasn't sure where it ended, as the pace picked up only a bit. Everybody was pretty well-behaved and predictable.

I dropped my chain around mile four, off the OUTSIDE of the big ring. The cranks started spinning uselessly and my bike made a sound like an old man reaching into an ample pocket of change. So much for thinking I had my derailleurs dialed perfectly. I back-pedaled for about 20 seconds before the chain popped back on, with guys yelling at me to drop back the whole time—to where? I was on the outside, right at the double yellow. To stop would mean getting dropped before even really starting. There's no team car with a spare bike in amateur racing. But, hey, it worked out, even though I lost about ten places.

The easy pace continued, but I think we all knew the race would get a lot harder around mile seven, at the beginning of a two-mile climb. That's just what happened, as riders rose out of their saddles, heart rates spiked, breathing became labored. The climb quickly split the field right in front of me—which, for some reason, happens often. Then, the question: bridge to the group ahead or not? That move might work, or it might lead to me blowing up, and being caught in that lonely space between groups. Since I didn't know the course, I climbed at my own pace. Two miles, around six percent grade, seated, at about 85 percent of my capacity.

There was a guy in a Monadnock jersey who was doing these strong attacks, rising and sprinting. I resisted the bait and did my own thing, which worked out because he'd always drift back. Over the top, I slowly passed him, and he grabbed my wheel. We worked together on the descent, and the flat bit that followed, eventually catching four other riders. It's a sweet feeling, cranking along, then letting off the gas for a few seconds as that last little gap closes, into that quiet cone of shelter. We got a ragged pace line going, with lots of shouting but not much understanding. Maybe I should cat up, I thought briefly, but that might involve riding alone more often, watching even more riders shrink away ahead of me. Maybe next year.

Bike racing is more fun for me when I'm in a group. It was at this point that the race got interesting. Good riders can study others quickly: pick out the strong, steady ones; avoid the wobbly, slower ones. I rode well, taking short pulls, but somehow ending up back out front quickly.

Our alliance of six strengthened as we covered a few more miles. Hopes soared as we discussed how many—or how few—riders were in front of us. Hard left, past the marshals' orange flags, and we spotted more riders on the next climb: bait for our hungry gruppetto. We passed them, yelled “grab a wheel,” but none did. There's such a huge range of ability and fitness at this admittedly lower level of competition that riders do get very spread out on the road.

Soon we were on the last climb, the one I'd reconnoitered from the car. I was out front, and I set an easy pace—go ahead and pass if you want, then you pull. Whatever our overall standings in the race, it was fun to use strategy for once. In the past, if I was out front, I'd feel a need to push the pace. I guess I'm learning.

Watching my computer, I knew the end was coming, so I tucked in behind the biggest rider in the group, to whom I'd later properly introduce myself. He looked around every once and a while, inviting me to pull up, but I declined. The six riders reshuffled places for a bit, little tests and bursts. The speed picked up as we neared the countdown: signs placed at 200, 100 and 50 meters.

I've never truly sprinted for the line in a race before, but it seemed inevitable. We were all in the bar drops, and I felt good, right behind the big guy. A couple others came around, and I jumped, sat in for a moment, then came around. Out of our six, I passed four just before the line. So it wasn't for first place—it was still a rush, the best moment of the race.

We coasted down the road afterward, made quick introductions and gave animated re-caps, all in that sweet post-race euphoria.

I grabbed lunch with some other CBRC riders—and Terry, my lead-out man, who, it turns out, is a really cool dude. "Jeez, Terry," I said, "if I'd have know you were such a nice guy... "

The cold, hard facts: I placed 17th out of 44 finishers in my field, riding 20 miles in 58 minutes and nine seconds. Sure, I want to do better in the next race. But, as I hope I've shown, there's much more to it than that.

For another description of the sprint, click here.

For a run-down of my rather average race results, click here.

Race Report: Trooper Brinkerhoff Memorial Race, Week 1

Spin classes, cross-country skiing, idyllic solo rides where I feel fabulous and mythic as I climb a rolling hill don't really indicate anything. Pinning on a number over several layers of clothing and heading out into a fierce Greene County wind for the year's first race is a much better measurement.

The usual jitters passed as they usually do--all gone by the time I rolled up to the start line. It's actually getting to feel familiar, five years into racing. Today's is a short course at 18 miles, and it's nearly completely flat.

Lap one: A much faster pace than last year, which actually made it safer as we spread out. I spotted fellow CBRC guy Tim, and followed his wheel through the pack. Some gaps opened up, and I covered them, no problem, staying in the top ten to fifteen riders. We all managed to dodge the potholes that were helpfully outlined in bright orange spray paint.

The pace picked up the second lap, stretching the group out even more. Hard efforts and brief respites--that old wisdom that says "no matter how good or bad you feel, it won't last" that's true in racing and life. On the back side of the course, after a short rise, a gap opened in front of me. The wind filled it, of course. Tim, my guiding wheel, made the break. Then the mental game: go hard now, catch the group with almost nothing left, or ride at a sustainable pace. My body trumped my mind on that one.

I eased up and worked with several riders who came along. It felt good to have some company out there in the wind. Any cyclist I've asked would rather climb a harrowing hill than face wind like this--at least you can see what you're up against.

We worked our way through the last lap, out in a bubble between other groups, taking our pulls. The smooth rider on the Cervelo, the wobbly one on the Specialized, and the others doing their thing.

And that's how we finished, mid-field, on a desolate industrial road marked with cones, one USAC official checking off our numbers as we passed.

I'm used to coming in somewhere in the middle. I got 19th out of 49, though I'd hoped for top 10. We'll do it again next Saturday.

Race Report: Johnny Cake Lane #2

I woke up early on Saturday, and, AGAIN, my clock radio was playing Foghat's "Slow Ride." Maybe I should call PYX 106 and request "We Are the Champions" or something. I had a big breakfast and prepared four layers of clothes for what was surely going to be a couple of chilly hours in the saddle. The fickle March weather had taken a turn again. I had some of the usual pre-race jitters, and reminded myself that they tend to go away once we're actually rolling.

I got to Coxsackie and did some warming up, and spotted some of my Tuesday-night buds. We were all in the same place mentally, taking a what-the-heck attitude toward an early-season race of three six-mile loops on winter-ravaged country roads. I rolled up to the start on the late side, and consequently got a place near the back. The "C" group was a motley mix of riders and bikes: men, women spanning about 40 years of age, and a few kids bravely straddling bikes with grown-up wheels.

We got the usual lecture from the race official, and were reminded again of the center-line rule, due to some unfortunate mishaps last week resulting from a few racers' bad decisions. We were soon off and rolling. The first lap felt like a parade, as we filled the entire lane. I assured the triathlete (and newbie road racer) by my side that the pace would pick up.

The bullhorn from the follow car barked occasionally, sounding like the adults on "Peanuts." No matter--I knew it was repeated reminders about the center line. I settled in, absorbing the mid-pack ebbs and flows in speed. The pack expanded on the slight downhills and contracted on the gentle rises. I was on the wheel of a big guy, who was wearing some kind of floppy pants, his number haphazardly pinned to the center of his back. I'm not a bike snob, but I knew this guy was a bit green. Not that I'm a war-hardened rouler or anything, but enough time in packs gives anyone a sensibility, even if--like me--one does not get much faster. We hit that little rise by the tar-paper shack, and the pack folded in on itself, riders standing and throwing their bikes back. Mr. Sweatpants started to swerve, and I got around him.

Okay, cool, I thought. Lap one, done, and I'm in the pack. The speed was reasonable, and I was hanging. Threading my way through to the front? Not happening.

Lap two, the carnage started. The speed had picked up, and the pack felt twitchy. We went up the tiny hill again, more sloppily, and riders bumped and went down right in front of me, cursing as they fell. I escaped, somehow, and managed to join the riders who had pulled slightly ahead. It's a ruthless triage, but in the absence of any real hills, crashes split the pack.

Bell lap, and the pace picked up even more, but I wasn't feeling the pain the way I have in the past. A little burn after the s-turn and the rise after the Murderkill Bridge, but that's it. I and others would gain a few places, then lose them. I found one of my Tuesday-night homies, looking strong after a long pull at the front as we barreled toward the 1K mark.

Sprinting is one of the nerviest things in bike racing. I've seen enough on Versus to know that it's not for the faint of heart. I felt pretty content to be in the pack, and decided to take it easy and stay alert. Good call, as it turns out: the rider in the lead wasn't familiar with the course's last turn, and he turned prematurely, taking out the two riders behind him. I saw the whole thing from about 50 meters back, one racer hitting the pavement on his right hip. The little splash of cheers and applause from spectators was cut short by that awful sound of bikes and bodies going down. The pack reacted quickly and skillfully, and the rest of us remained upright. We sprinted the last 400 meters, and I'll bet all of us felt relieved that we'd made it to the totally nondescript finish line on the windswept industrial road. I overtook two or three riders in the last stretch, making for a finish in the top 15 or 20--not bad for a cold day in March. Upright and intact.

Race With the Wind, or: “Putting the ‘Ow’ in ‘Lowville’”

After a long week getting back into school mode, and not sleeping well at all, I headed west to the Tug Hill Plateau with my cycling pal JC for the Race With the Wind, a fifty-mile bike race mostly on dirt roads and snowmobile trails. On the drive back, we concluded that riding and racing teaches many things, among them the odd pronunciation of ‘Lowville.’ Read on.

I’d never seen this particular part of New York before, but I hear about it all the time in the winter: it’s a perennial winner in terms of snowfall due to the infamous ‘lake effect.’ It’s gently rolling hills, fields and forests, and the area near the race is filled with wind turbines, quiet white sentinels stretching for miles. Their blades made gentle sighs, almost breaths. A fighter jet from a nearby base ripped across the sky as we got closer.

We pulled into the parking lot to find a smaller-than-expected number of racers. Maybe some folks had a more updated weather report. I loaded my gear: spare tubes, mini pump, caffeinated gels, phone, water, and a drink called Perpetuem—it’s isotonic and hyperbolic.

Time for the start of the long, narrow drama. Shortly after rolling out, the skies opened up. Searching for an adjective, I tried to remain positive, passing on “miserable” for the more poetic “epic.” I was with the front group, doing the best I could to hold the wheel in front of me as that wheel kicked up a gritty rooster tail. These riders were the lean and hungry racer types I’d seen in the parking lot, and when they pulled away, I was somewhat relieved. Holding a wheel on a gravel road in the rain is a bit dicey. I rode at my own pace, leapfrogging two riders on mountain bikes several times, and following the pink spray-paint arrows.

The road surface varied widely, from hardpack dirt to fist-sized rocks. I was riding Fine China, my cyclocross bike, and my skinnier tires went from advantage to liability and back. The alloy frame transmitted more than I cared to know about those rocky fists under my wheels, but I kept on.

Mile 17: The road was some sort of chip-and-seal, and my tires happily and noisily bit into it, until the abrupt left onto a snowmobile trail. My front tire washed out, sliding several inches to the right as I leaned into the turn. My body responded automatically, and my right arm moved so quickly that the muscle burned immediately. I would have went down hard on my left side. Fortuitous? I think my angel gruppetto was smiling on me.

My legs burnt, my back tensed up, undoing all the magic of Friday’s massage. My Perpetuem seemed to fall short. I did the mental trick of dividing the miles I had left, saying, “Oh, I can ride 25 miles anytime.” I felt great. I felt like I had to stop. My hands got numb. I shook them out until feeling returned. My breaths steadied, and I reminded myself that I tend to get stronger the longer I go, and that it’s enough just to finish.

Forty miles in, one rider way ahead, none visible behind. I figured there were about six to eight ahead, an unknown number behind. The course doubled back a few times. I recalled this from a cursory glance at the map. Pink arrows pointing different ways. A man in a pickup at an intersection said “about four more miles.” Energized, I sped up, went through another intersection, saw another man at an intersection, who said “about six more miles.” Huh? My mood plummeted. I passed a cabin I swear I’d seen once before. Or was it twice? Arrows going both ways. Mile 50 came and went, with me alone in the woods.

I caught a glimpse of something large and white, and heard the swish of air. I was never more happy to see a wind turbine, and I knew I was close. A peek back—no one. Am I doing well? Who knows? On the gravel road, I sped up. A quick left, down the hill to the finish.

The woman’s clipboard was filled with riders who’d already returned. My heart sank. It turns out I’d missed a turn and ridden an extra six miles.

Okay, so I rode more miles than anyone else. There’s no special jersey for that. Considering the circumstances, I’m happy with how I did. The weather cleared, the view was beautiful, and that sweet post-race endorphin buzz was coming on. Pass/fail? Pass.

Race Report: Johnny Cake Lane Series, Race 1

Spring is here. Time for all of us cyclists to put on our game faces, take our bikes off the trainers, and feel the sharp sting of the wind as it comes across the fields of beautiful Greene County. It's race time!

I pull into the parking lot at the school, and am greeted by bikes and riders milling about, along with perpetually grumpy USCF commissaires and assorted family members/friends/significant others who have been drafted into supporting roles.

I suit up and get the bike ready, as I surreptitiously eye up the other riders. I head out to the course, and pedal a lap the wrong way to recon the course. I know these roads. Small rises, mostly flat, gaping potholes helpfully marked by orange spray paint.

Just a bit of nerves now. I ease into the group at the start, glance around, see super-fit riders, collegiate team kits and thousands of dollars of bike tech. Whoops, the pro/cat 1-3 field. I sneak out, back to the "C" group, cat 5s and first-timers. OK, that's better. I recognize a couple riders, and try to guess at the abilities, style and potential dangers of others.

We ease out onto the course for a neutral start. One of my Tuesday-night buds, Dan, is driving the pace car for our group. "I'll look for you in the mirror," he says. Cool. I make small talk with other riders as we roll out. "Stay loose," I say to everyone and no one. It sounds corny, but I like it when other guys say that. And, considering my only experience in a pack recently was the previous night's critical-mass ride, it's good for me to hear it, too.

Lap one is thankfully uneventful. Small accelerations that I can mark, no problem. Little rises, some wobbly riders. I'm at fifth wheel on the back side of the course, in the catbird seat. This lasts for all of 20 seconds before the amorphous blob of the peloton shifts, and I'm ten more places back, boxed in along the road's edge. Don't crash, stay loose, I say to myself. OK.

Got this crazy idea to attack, try a solo breakaway. Never have had the chance. My usual M.O. in races is to hang on for dear life to the wheels in front of me. I feel good, heart rate's decent, and I want out of this group. There's a nervous energy that could lead to shoulders--or worse, wheels--touching. OK, I think, end of the first lap.

Mid-pack, I click up three gears, swing out so that I'm right on the double-yellow, rise out of the saddle, and step on the gas. "Who's going with me?" I yell, as much to my surprise as anyone's. We'll see what happens. I hazard a glance back--no chasers yet. Come on, guys, I'm your rabbit. Not that I want to get caught, but I can't stay out here alone for two laps. Heart rate's redlining, and I'm feeling great. I'm gaining on Dan in the pace car. You see me now? I think. Wow, what a rush.

This rabbit's getting tired. Riders behind me are stretched out, but closing on me. I may be a sacrificial rabbit, but my move woke up the pack.

The rabbit metaphor deflates as my heart-rate monitor holds steady at 171 while my speed drops. Now I'm a piece of celery, going through the Cuisinart of the peloton. Shredded--pureed, even--and spit out the back. Whoa, I think. Were we all going that fast before? No, the pace has picked up.

I hook up with a few other guys on the back side of the course, and we work together, however raggedly. Do these guys think they have a better chance riding me off their wheels? Our numbers thin, until it's just one other rider with me. The main field is way out of sight. We pass some dropped B group riders. We're working together, but it's still competition--particularly on those small rises.

One kilometer to go. He's on my wheel, no intentions of coming around. We're looking at a sprint for, what, 20th place? Game on. I try to ride him off my wheel, but it only works momentarily, and he shoots by. I let him go.

This is a very low-budget race, with guaranteed results for the top five finishers only. I have no idea where I finished. In the pass/fail scoring of my mind, I call it a pass. Hey, a solo breakaway. One or two minutes of... glory? Pain? Surprise? A bit of all of those? Pass.

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.