'Never raced this course before.'
Geoff and I are driving in his black Peugeot north on the N9 to Narbonne. Janet, the kids, my sister and her friend and my bike are trailing some meters behind in our Espace. Today is my first race of the season, a strange season for me, much earlier than past years when I would be getting ready for the Great Bear Chase ski race in northern Michigan.
The arid scenery north of Perpignan and the Salanque plain pass outside the window, olive trees, vineyards, cactus, vineyards and more vineyards. Mussle beds spot the Medeterranean shoreline as we approach Narbonne and we hit the first rondpoints coming into town. The race is being held in Armissan, about 10 kilometers from town; the registration is at the cave cooperative. We've given ourselves an hour to register and warmup, but we take a wrong turn and end up at the Narbonne plage. Beautiful, but no bike race. We retrace our route back towards town. As we discuss the relative merits of each tiny tarmace heading into the hills, I'm aware of the minutes ticking away.
We find our wrong turn and head into Armissan. An ancient stone portal looms over the right side of the road, the three story face of a church missing it's other three walls and roof. Newer, cinderblock houses line the road before we reach the cooperative and the jungle of bikes, cars and people. Geoff noted earlier how strange it is to drive to one of these events and not see a single bike before reaching the starting area. Of course, we have about 30 minutes before the race starts and we hustle into the line of riders to register.
I don't have my blue UCI license in hand; USACycling ignored my request to send it to France and, instead, it has meandered its way to Iowa, Milwaukee and points east. I hand the elderly official my USCF license, 'Qu'est-ce que c'est?' 'C'est ma license domestique aux Etats Unis. J'ai cette lettre de permission de UCI aussi.' Grunting, huffing. I throw in my foreign permission letter as well, for effect. Geoff is next to me, having problems with his license. He usually races UFOLP races instead of FFC events and a new requirement for a more expensive license wasn't mentioned on the race form, but seems to be in effect anyway. Geoff's strategy is to become non-fluent in French. Quite effective at exasperating the old man holding my letters and license. 'You need a letter of permission for this department as well.' I don't understand this and smile at the woman with the numbers. 'Pour les deux? Dix quarant Euros.' 'Tres bien, merci.' We now have about 20 minutes before the race start.
In line, a fellow dressed in the green of the Narbonne club, explains that there is a 'hill' in the course. Driving in we noticed that there was a small mountain seperating Armissan from the coast. Surely, they wouldn't route the race up the hill.
After a pee in the bushes and various and sundry activities related to getting ready to race, I bid adieu to the family and warm up for eight minutes before we're called to the line. I look at the odometer, 2.3 miles. Not good, but I feel comfortably enscounced in the peloton grouped at the line. About 120 of us, a few older, but most young. Two elite woman are entered as well. My goal is to warmup on the first of the eight laps and try to stick in the pack, sucking wheels.
The fellow on the mike talks for about 10 minutes, his unintelligble words mangled by the squawks on the speaker system. And we're off. The course snakes it's way through the centre ville, compressing the peloton. I'm in the middle and grab the brakes hard several times. We're like a large sausage begin stretched and shaken on the broken streets and then we're spit out the other side of town.
Voila, the 'hill'! My legs have that odd feeling when they're asked to do something they're not ready to do, like climb a 10-15% percent grade at speed in my big chainring. I make it with the group to the first plateau and then get shat out the back when the climb shoots up again. I keep turning over the pedals and my heart rate shoots far into the red zone. I must be a spectacle; a fellow with a camera sits in the road in front of me, waiting until I fill his frame perfectly with my agonized grimmace, before scooting out of the way. A fast downhill with speeds approaching 45mph gets me within spitting distance of the commisar's red car, but I'm alone in the wind going back into town and slowly lose the group.
One lap. Ok, I'll pedal within myself and hitch on with some of the other fallen riders. But there are no riders in front and those in back have quickly withdrawn and I pedal another lap by myself (damn that fellow with the camera!), feeling slightly better on the hill this time. There's a rider a hundred yards in front of me as we approach the town in the wind. Pick up the pace and reach him... and he pulls into the parking lot. OK, one more lap. The sour taste of my stomach pushes up as I crest the hill again. I'm done, not really racing anymore, broken.
It's been a long time since I've been dropped like this in a race and Geoff and I are philosophical about it on our drive home. 'Not a course for no-uppers like us,' he says. I don't think there are many races in the midwest that have a climb like that in their route. Snake Alley comes to mind, but it's not two miles long. Having a propper warmup would have helped, but we were both doomed from the start. We leave Narbonne a bit wiser, and a lot more interested in our training regimen over the next few weeks.
Geoff and I are driving in his black Peugeot north on the N9 to Narbonne. Janet, the kids, my sister and her friend and my bike are trailing some meters behind in our Espace. Today is my first race of the season, a strange season for me, much earlier than past years when I would be getting ready for the Great Bear Chase ski race in northern Michigan.
The arid scenery north of Perpignan and the Salanque plain pass outside the window, olive trees, vineyards, cactus, vineyards and more vineyards. Mussle beds spot the Medeterranean shoreline as we approach Narbonne and we hit the first rondpoints coming into town. The race is being held in Armissan, about 10 kilometers from town; the registration is at the cave cooperative. We've given ourselves an hour to register and warmup, but we take a wrong turn and end up at the Narbonne plage. Beautiful, but no bike race. We retrace our route back towards town. As we discuss the relative merits of each tiny tarmace heading into the hills, I'm aware of the minutes ticking away.
We find our wrong turn and head into Armissan. An ancient stone portal looms over the right side of the road, the three story face of a church missing it's other three walls and roof. Newer, cinderblock houses line the road before we reach the cooperative and the jungle of bikes, cars and people. Geoff noted earlier how strange it is to drive to one of these events and not see a single bike before reaching the starting area. Of course, we have about 30 minutes before the race starts and we hustle into the line of riders to register.I don't have my blue UCI license in hand; USACycling ignored my request to send it to France and, instead, it has meandered its way to Iowa, Milwaukee and points east. I hand the elderly official my USCF license, 'Qu'est-ce que c'est?' 'C'est ma license domestique aux Etats Unis. J'ai cette lettre de permission de UCI aussi.' Grunting, huffing. I throw in my foreign permission letter as well, for effect. Geoff is next to me, having problems with his license. He usually races UFOLP races instead of FFC events and a new requirement for a more expensive license wasn't mentioned on the race form, but seems to be in effect anyway. Geoff's strategy is to become non-fluent in French. Quite effective at exasperating the old man holding my letters and license. 'You need a letter of permission for this department as well.' I don't understand this and smile at the woman with the numbers. 'Pour les deux? Dix quarant Euros.' 'Tres bien, merci.' We now have about 20 minutes before the race start.
In line, a fellow dressed in the green of the Narbonne club, explains that there is a 'hill' in the course. Driving in we noticed that there was a small mountain seperating Armissan from the coast. Surely, they wouldn't route the race up the hill.
After a pee in the bushes and various and sundry activities related to getting ready to race, I bid adieu to the family and warm up for eight minutes before we're called to the line. I look at the odometer, 2.3 miles. Not good, but I feel comfortably enscounced in the peloton grouped at the line. About 120 of us, a few older, but most young. Two elite woman are entered as well. My goal is to warmup on the first of the eight laps and try to stick in the pack, sucking wheels.
The fellow on the mike talks for about 10 minutes, his unintelligble words mangled by the squawks on the speaker system. And we're off. The course snakes it's way through the centre ville, compressing the peloton. I'm in the middle and grab the brakes hard several times. We're like a large sausage begin stretched and shaken on the broken streets and then we're spit out the other side of town.
Voila, the 'hill'! My legs have that odd feeling when they're asked to do something they're not ready to do, like climb a 10-15% percent grade at speed in my big chainring. I make it with the group to the first plateau and then get shat out the back when the climb shoots up again. I keep turning over the pedals and my heart rate shoots far into the red zone. I must be a spectacle; a fellow with a camera sits in the road in front of me, waiting until I fill his frame perfectly with my agonized grimmace, before scooting out of the way. A fast downhill with speeds approaching 45mph gets me within spitting distance of the commisar's red car, but I'm alone in the wind going back into town and slowly lose the group.
One lap. Ok, I'll pedal within myself and hitch on with some of the other fallen riders. But there are no riders in front and those in back have quickly withdrawn and I pedal another lap by myself (damn that fellow with the camera!), feeling slightly better on the hill this time. There's a rider a hundred yards in front of me as we approach the town in the wind. Pick up the pace and reach him... and he pulls into the parking lot. OK, one more lap. The sour taste of my stomach pushes up as I crest the hill again. I'm done, not really racing anymore, broken.
It's been a long time since I've been dropped like this in a race and Geoff and I are philosophical about it on our drive home. 'Not a course for no-uppers like us,' he says. I don't think there are many races in the midwest that have a climb like that in their route. Snake Alley comes to mind, but it's not two miles long. Having a propper warmup would have helped, but we were both doomed from the start. We leave Narbonne a bit wiser, and a lot more interested in our training regimen over the next few weeks.
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