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.

Dropped

a tight group of
eight riders flying
down a dirt road
tires thumb-wide
heart pounding in
the head and arms bent
and wheels furrow the dry dirt
mid-pack riders inches apart
bike dancing beneath me
like skiing powder
feeling good and the
bike pulls left and
I follow the wheel
hundreds of tiny hands
grab the skinny tire
scrub off the speed and
a gap opens and riders
in front pull away
roll away like nothing
but it’s something and
I wheeze and stand on
the pedals alone in the wind
and there goes seven places
and I ride on inside myself and
riders ahead are miniature
figures and 17 miles to go and
I ride on to the
finish or oblivion
whichever comes
first.

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.

Alpine Race

Light and shadow, as trees filter
sunlight onto a humble Italian road.
Capricious turns, no clear lines of sight
and the race is with those around them.
Shoulders rock in rhythmic shrugs,
a twitch, a tic, unnatural anywhere else
and the strong riders emerge from
the proletariat pack, like seeds sprung
from shells now discarded, shooting forth,
sprouting instantly as the road climbs.
The top is just the beginning of the
downhill exam, all physics and geometry:
compound curves, acute angles of
bent riders and sinuous road, with
extra credit for steeled nerves.
Then, a rush to the line, in a single rider's
tunnel vision of barricades and booming voices
as, for the first time in hours, he unfolds, sits up--
eyes behind mirrors, the arms aloft say it all
and, by now, the wheels know where to go.

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.

The Sprint

Tucked in behind a big wall of a rider
where the only wind I hear
is the steam-train staccato
of my own breaths
roughly in time with the
pistons of my legs
six riders hustle and jostle
filling the cracked
country tarmac
blurring colors and voices
and a row of signs
counting down the meters
miles behind us spent
playing cards
dealing out and holding back
now the sweet spot
sheltered for as long
as possible until a
break right—no, left--
into the wind
hunched at the bar
saddle swinging like
a pendulum counting
out the final seconds
narrow-eyed animal focus
on the line ahead
throw the bike over the line
then everything goes slack--
and we are human again,
grinning like kids, a slap
on the back--
Good race, man.

Testing my mettle on the pedals: Saturday's race

The Capital Region Road Race is the largest bicycle race within a 25-mile radius of Albany. Hundreds of riders take over the parking lot at RCHS in Ravena, turning it into a sea of lyrcra, carbon and smooth, chiseled calves. Oh, and some indulgent spouses and friends, too.

I roll in nice and early, so I can nonchalantly assemble my bike and maybe find some friendly faces.

Behind my shades, it’s a different story. I’m nervous. That extra cup of coffee didn’t help, either. I’ve been in a bunch of different races over the past two years (late bloomer, remember?), but I still get some butterflies. I think that’s good, actually. It’s a mix of anticipation and dread. Will I stay with the group? What if I get dropped right away? Will there be a crash? Will I cause a crash? It’s like there’s all this energy that’s not hooked to anything except my mind, which is cranking faster than an LA spin instructor on speed. Hopefully it’ll all fall away once I click in to my pedals. That’s where my energy should be channeled.

I sign in, get my number, make small talk at the Luna tent, get some schwag and good wishes from Jenn, and I’m off to warm up on the quiet local roads. All the riders are giving each other the once-over as we spin along. My mind starts to unwind a bit. I roll up to the rear of the pack that has assembled at the start line. It’s us cat 5s (beginners—always the most popular), some older dudes, and the citizen riders. It’s filled up: 75 riders. The commissaire goes over the rules, and we start the three-mile neutral roll-out. I’m near the back, and the yo-yo effect is happening already. This is the least efficient place to ride, I remind myself, vowing to move up when I can. Riders groan in protest when someone brakes unnecessarily or swerves. Seems like that nervous energy is everywhere, like “let’s start racing already.” After a dead stop at the start line (irony, anyone?) we’re off.

It’s rolling for a few miles, I’m spinning nice and easy, moving up in the pack, sussing out riders as I go. We’re still yo-yo-ing. “The climb’ll break it up,” I tell a rider next to me. Yeah, I think, I’ll be off the back. Just as quickly, I think, yeah you will if you keep thinking like that. Click. Big ring, speed picks up a bit.

Soon enough, we’re at the first climb. Some riders rise out of their saddles, other sit and spin. I’m hanging. The road rises for everyone. Stay loose. A few riders pass me, but I’m in the pack—better than last year.

Whoah. We’re at the top, and I’m not dropped. Let me point out that I don’t have delusions of winning. I just want to ride hard and do my best. As I’m thinking these types of thoughts, the peloton is now a long, thin line. Just like on TV, I think, but it hurts more.

There are more downs and ups, and then we do the hairpin onto Whitbeck. Short and steep. No “suitcase of courage” or “pain bucket” drawn on the road this year—huh? I ask a rider why. “It rained last night,” he says. Oh yeah. Next lap there will be no banter, either.

More down and up, and there’s no more pack. It’s not like the pros, with breakaways, a peloton and stragglers. We’re all strung out, literally, at least as far as I can tell. No expert commentary and dry British wit here, Mr. Liggett. We’re passing Alcove Reservoir, and I catch a couple of riders. One’s a guy on an Olmo, with Campy Record. Number 646. I know all this because I’m centimeters behind him, thankful for the draft. We take turns pulling, but our rotations are rough. Still, I’m grateful. No bile rising in my throat, my heart rate back on the scale. My vision and focus are narrowing.

We hang through the back side of the course, a rolling downhill for a few miles. Things get a little broken up as we near the end of the first lap. Mr. CBRC keeps taking these flyers off the front of our group, then comes limping back. Save it, dude. You’ll need it later.

646 pulls away from me at the bottom of Tracy. I almost say, see you later, thinking I’m dropped for good, but again I catch myself. As my own coach, I say, Toughen up. The road rises just as much for him. I keep him in sight, up Tracy, down Stanton, up Whitbeck again, past the photographer who catches us all in full agony, jerseys unzipped, bikes weaving. Many riders—myself included—will pay for these pictures. Figure that out. Well, it’s something to show Mom. I smile.

Past Alcove, I catch 646 again. His form looks good. I’m behind him for a few clicks before he realizes it. I’ve learned that his cue for me to pull through is just a little nod. What few words have reached me have a distinctly Spanish accent. You know Contador? Indurain? I want to ask, in my oxygen-deprived state. It’s at that point in the race when my mind shuts out nearly everything besides propelling my bike forward at the highest sustainable pace I can.

We make the turn onto Route 32. There’s three of us now. I’m pulling, and we’re gaining on two riders. From their postures, they look like they are out for a casual ride. I reel them in, more slowly than I expected. One of them, in an orange jersey, says convivially, “I’m glad to see you guys!” Wheelsucker, I think immediately. Too happy, too ready to hitch a ride.

Now we are five. Indurain’s brother and I are taking most of the pulls, it seems. I ask a rider on a Cannondale, “Why am I at the front again?” He chuckles, which translates to “chump.”

We turn on to the long faux-plat (hey, indulge me here—cat 5 racing is my humble homage to the greats) and my mind turns a corner as well. Think. I’m midfield, no chance of winning. Yeah, that’s OK. This does feel competitive. Yes, and that feels good. Orange Jersey’s not doing his share. Right. That other guy looks tired. Uh huh. Contador’s uncle is strong. Yup—Whoops! I just buzzed his tire! Stay focused. Hold your line. OK, so it goes like this: five of us come to the last k, and we all struggle up those rollers. Or…

Orange Jersey finally takes a pull. I’m on his wheel. We’re coming to that sharp right. He pulls off. I’m at the front. I see the corner. Take it wide, use the whole road. Weight the outside pedal. Hey, you survived a crit, right? Go a little faster.

I’m through the corner, clicking two cogs higher, out of the saddle, rocking the bike and sprinting with all I have left, after Tracy and Whitbeck times two, after nearly throwing up, and it feels… awesome! My bike and the wind make a beautiful song together. This is so much better than doing intervals on 9J all by myself. This is even better than dueling with Randy on 351. Yes! I go for, what, 20 seconds? Thirty? I look back and see my Spaniard again. I shake my head, thinking it was all for naught. We regroup, but only three of us. So we shook the deadweight. All right! A couple of k’s to go. I slow up, thinking I’ll be the chucklehead towing these two to the line. One guy’s in front of me, 646 behind, and we slow as the road pitches up. Nothing like Whitbeck, but we’re all almost out of gas. We cross the line in that order, to a light rain of applause from other riders and spectators.And it’s over.

It’s over. Now I’m aware of my heaving chest, the salty sweat coating my face and arms, the sting in my quads. “Good race,” I say to 646, and coast down the road. Later, in the parking lot, I see him recounting his experience to his buddies. He’s gesturing intensely, explaining how he worked with other riders. I spot him, and say, yeah, that was me. “We did all the work,” he says.

A small victory. I rode faster than 15 others, but 24 rode faster than me.