Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Cherry Creek Wednesdays

A nice counterbalance to my last two weeks has been a trip north with Karl to do the Wednesday night Cherry Creek Time Trial series, ten miles of fun at Cherry Creek State Park.  About 500 other riders join us as we shove off at 20 second intervals.  Karl heads out at 5:05 and I follow at 5:15:20.  The spacing allows me to keep an eye, albeit one blurred with sweat and whizzing by at 30mph, on him.  He keeps close track of where I cross and pass him on the course each week.

The first week, we crossed paths just before the first turn-around at the west end of the park (week 2-about 200 yds earlier), then I passed him in the final turn-around before the gutbuster climb to the finish (week 2-just at the start of the climb) and then we meet past the finish line when he finishes a couple of minutes after me (week 2, about a minute later).

The first week, our trip was slowed by an overturned tanker blocking I25.  With the detour around, we arrived a few minutes before Karl’s start, grabbed and pinned his number and went to search for the start tent.  It was cold and there was no warm-up for either of us.  My ride was essentially pedaling squares, bouncing around in the saddle and

trying to be smooth.  Karl took a wrong turn and went off course and then turned around and came back. 

He finished with a huge smile on his face.

We both finished last in our groups.  The second week, Karl shaved two minutes off his time to finish fourth and I took off a minute to not finish last. 

New bars for last week’s race made the position a bit more comfortable, up about 10cm and a wider placement of the elbows.

Adding regular, early tt’s to the training is taking the place of a workout with longer cruise intervals and seems to be helping me develop my power at threshold.  Racing with my son on a regular basis has become something much more valuable.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

In a Haystack

Thick drool hung from my chin to the aero bar of my bike.  Sand and dirt clotted my teeth and I could just see the outline of Sean’s tire a few inches in front of my own.  I couldn’t see much else; the third turn, and a short run to the finish line were coming up, but I really had no idea of where and how far. 

Gap! 

We had crested a small hill, Sean pushing the pace, alternating with Doug up the rise.  I couldn’t see how fast we were going, rivulets of water and dirt coated the computer and my visor, but it hurt.  A small cramp was emerging from deep inside my right thigh, and I felt Doug’s hand pushing on my butt.  I closed to Sean’s wheel again and we descended, speed picking up and blessed rest settled into both legs as I coasted past Sean to the front.  I had about sixty pounds on both of these guys and the brief respite on the downhills evened things out a bit.  They needed a brief break too.

Sixteen minutes earlier we were a five man team, astraddle five wet, but shiny bikes at the start line of the Haystack team time trial.  Only 12.1 miles to the finish line on a slightly downhill course due to the road closure on the final leg.  It was cool, about fifty and the rain was picking up a bit and we were off.  I slotted in behind Doug, our smallest most aerodynamic rider, and made an immediate note to skip a pull and get behind Colin or Sean at the first opportunity.  The road rose a bit and then a nice descent and I was on the front feeling smooth and fast.  The speed was just at forty as Colin struggled to come around, I eased and moved to the right, into the side wind and drifted to the rear.  We hit a small climb and Colin came back, too fast, and now we were four. 

I found comfort behind Brian, with his more upright position on the bike and the miles began to tick past, a mixture of road spray, dirt and wind.  I’d come through with a pull for thirty seconds or so, see the groups in front of us, coming back to us after their forty and eighty second head starts, and pull a tad harder.  A few miles in, we hit a sharp climb with Sean pulling on the front and the legs burned.  I pulled through quickly and moved over for Doug and then realized Brian was gone.  I yelled gap, but we were now down to the minimum of three; our team time would be determined by the third rider to finish.  This was good; now when I yelled gap, they had to wait.

Of course, the terrible thing was that Doug and Sean offered not much in the way of draft and I could feel each pull on the front sap a bit more of the strength.  We were pushing hard to close on the riders in front of us.  The second turn came and I could no longer think clearly.  The wind was straight on, but my wheel weaved back and forth as I fought the bike and the bile coming up from my stomach.  I skipped a pull, then two, trying to recover.  I would, if I could get just a bit of rest.

Gap!  We crested the hill, Doug was pushing my ass with his hand.  This helped not in pushing me up the road, something akin to lifting yourself off the ground, but it made me angry and I found a pinch of energy to match Sean’s speed for the last 500 meters and cross the line.  Spent.  We averaged exactly 30mph for the race.

We were second, thirty seconds behind the winning team, yet ten seconds ahead of our ‘A’ team.  Brian rolled through the finish, battling cramps, and Colin came through a tad later, wondering why he tried to pull through on my first downhill pull.  These are the things we learn from doing a team time trial. 

From Doug’s report:

We were rolling like a freight train on fire, and 2 of our boys took shrapnel in their legs.  We're drilling with all we have, and Chris explodes.  Seriously explodes.  But somehow, someway, he manages to dig deeper than any man I have ever seen into one of those places inside that can overcome the absolute terror of the moment, and he comes back.  Not only does he come back from the brink, the edge, the pit; but he comes back and allows the "B" team to put around 10 seconds into the "A" team.  Beers all around courtesy of the "A" team I believe? 

So there were 4 teams, and we took 2nd and 3rd, racking up major BAT points.  It was truly an honor to race with these men, I am seriously humbled.

Bicycle Ped'lar won, but they have some massive guys, I think they got 30 seconds on us.

After the race was over, we rode the long road home, washed off the mud from the bikes and hung out over beer and pretzels and allowed the blood to come back into our skulls.  It was a good day.  It was a good day to fight the good fight.

What I know is this: those guys made me a better rider than I was before.

Tuesday, April 06, 2010

the Koppenberg

Koppenberg and Velowood 007I knew something was very wrong when the portapotty, neighboring the one I occupied, blew over.  The floor began to rock backwards and I scrambled towards the door to get it back on the ground.  Outside, my family was huddled in the car.  The sun was out, but the wind whipped the parking area, the registration table began losing forms and riders clutched their bikes, flags were tilting up.  Sand and very small rocks were airborne.  There wasn’t a thought of not racing today; we’d driven 70 miles up to this god-forsaken suburb of Boulder, pre-registered online and committed mentally to the idea of suffering for an hour and a half.

Koppenberg and Velowood 062There is a hill on a dirt road in Colorado.  A sign says ‘No Outlet’.  The road is three ridges at the bottom separated by two deep gullies, deeper than the axle of my front wheel.  By the middle of the climb there are two ridges separated by three gullies.  Rocks and sand fill each trench.  Our group of 35+ Masters riders, turns onto the climb and play Monty Hall, ‘I’ll take curtain number 2, Monty’ with the ridges.  I choose correctly but mid hill, my tire slides into a trough and I stall into a strange trackstand, kept upright by the gusting wind and my tire wedged into the side of the hill.   I am the only one that has this problem and the group crests the grade and turns right.  I unclip and scramble the rest of the way, jump on the seat and pedal east, the wind on my side.  The group stays just in front, a few hundred meters away, but I can’t make the tail.

The road turns to pavement with a thump where pavement and dirt come together in a elongated hole.  I’m abusing my bike now, focusing on the peloton instead of the pavement.  I make the gap smaller by diving the corner onto the highway and get the full tailwind now.  I’m doing 45, but the group begins to pull away a bit.  Another corner helps me close and then the straightaway to the finish.  Each straight the group gains ground.  When we hit the dirt, I know I can’t close before the hill.

The flyer said the hill is 17 percent.  On a dirt road with sand, this means the rear wheel will slip unless it’s weighted with my rear end.  Climbing a road that steep seated is a painful exercise.  I’m sure it’s good for me in some strange way.

‘That’s it, keep it up.’ ‘C’mon, get back in the game.  they’re just ahead.’  None of this helps, really.  It’s a physical problem, physics problem.  Mass (ie. my large self) + Force (where is my watt meter again?)= I can only go up this hill so fast without blowing up.  I have to do it four more times.  Can I do it four more times?  The wind greets me full in the face at the top, sand blows in under my glasses. 

This really sucks.  Each time up the hill is a slowly increasing fraction, one out of six, two out of six, three times (only half left!).  I ride by myself.  Twice, a fellow rides by on the section past the hill, gapping me for a few moments and then blowing completely up as I pass.  I assume they drop.  I parcel out the effort, thinking of finishing.  On lap 5, a fellow from the Swift team, who I passed two laps before, comes by, sucking the wheels of two pro riders out warming up on the course.  It’s not fair, so I grab his wheel until the pros are gone.  He’s friendly and we chat.  We take turns pulling and my legs feel much better. 

I have no idea who is behind me, but I’m determined I will not be last.  On our last time up the hill, I take a pull and then recover.  Onto the highway, I move to the front and stay there.  I glance back at the last turn and don’t see him.  I’m definitely not last.