In Dust We Trust – An Off-road Experience on the Road
I mostly created the position of “sponsor” of the R-bikes
racing team in order to procure a sweet team kit with my company name on
it. The added benefit has been exposure
for Richard’s Bikes, my long-term local shop of choice, and, of course, helping
out a cadre of eager racers ready and willing to take the R-bike flag to
many-a-podium. Also…I like being
involved with racing, even though I, myself, long ago semi-sort-of kinda maybe
retired from the racing game, using the formidable excuse of having raced too
damn much in the first 20 or so years of my life. This being the case, my competitive drive
isn’t quite what it used to be…BUT…there is apparently a well-documented case for
the fact that it is not entirely dead (see previous blogular iterations on
silly racing events…also…this).
Every couple years I get an itch to do something stupid…of
late, that has usually involved two wheels and great distances. This year, I am working up to just such a
thing, and, having trained hard all winter, was looking to bolster my fitness
level as well as my confidence level by giving the whole “gravel racing” thing
a try. Gravel “grinders” aren’t
necessarily new, but they certainly are popular with the kids these days, and
involve the requisite levels of torture that tend to inspire that insipid voice
in my head that talks so convincingly about doing stupid things.
I signed up for Barry Roubaix (The Killer Gravel Road Race)
with only slight trepidation…after all…I HAD completed a B-R in the past,
albeit only the 31 mile version. This
was the big daddy, however, 62 miles (100 kilometers, for you
metric-philes). I’d never attempted such
a thing this early in the year, but, as stated, I had been on the bike with
more than my usual frequency for the previous 5 months or so, even rolling with
relative comfort through a couple 70 mile road rides. My target was acquired…now all I had to do
was make it to the finish line.
One week prior to the feted B-R, on a frigid Friday night, I
was looking for the coup-de-grace for my training…and, after slogging through
an entire winter of cold, I was just about sick of it. I do most of my training alone, and the
forecast for the upcoming weekend was precisely the kind of temperature that I
had been dreading…and, unfortunately, just the kind of thing that would keep me
off the bike were I to be rolling by myself.
I needed motivation. I needed
some company for my misery. And I found
just the thing in my friend Bionic Bob and the Rough Road 100, another 62 mile
gravel race only 45 minutes from my door in Morris , IL
Note to self…and any other like-minded fools…when it is so
cold that your bike rack is frozen…staying in bed IS a viable and recommended
action. Instead, I found myself at the
starting line with just over 100 other silly people…the temperature hovering at
a less-than-balmy 28 degrees. As Bob had
some experience with this kind of thing, I figured I would roll out with him,
and see how I felt, and that worked out pretty well for the first couple
miles. When the first hill hit, the pack
we were with exploded, and I ended up on the front with a group of about
9. Now…when I say “the front,” I am
merely referring to the front of the group I was riding with…the actual front
of the race was off hammering themselves into oblivion some ways up the road
(did I mention I’m not super fast?).
This sudden effort brought into sharp relief something I did not think
possible on this day…I had overdressed.
I had to sit up and move out of the pace line to remove my thin outer
shell jacket…and the damn thing wouldn’t come off! Too tight around the shoulders…especially
with it being over the small Camelbak I was wearing. Rather than crashing in a very embarrassing
fashion, I stopped, got the jacket off, stuffed it inside the OTHER jacket I
was wearing, and kept on rolling.
The rest of the race was a mix of roads, crushed limestone,
and a section that I would much rather have ridden on my full-suspension
mountain bike, but I persevered. I ended
up in a group of about 10…with some riders occasionally catching on and some
getting shelled off the back…and in my relative ignorance; I spent a LOT of time in the wind pulling for the group. I figured…no big deal…I am used to training
by myself anyway. At about mile 50 (I’m
guessing here…I don’t believe in the calculated metrics provided by bike computers
and GPS…they take the fun out of the ride for me)…things suddenly got very
hard. Our group had caught a rider…but
this rider just put his head down and started bashing out an incredible pace. We were on the I and M Canal towpath…the home
stretch of crushed limestone…and I knew the end had to be near, so I just held
on. One by one, riders began popping…and
nobody was strong enough to come around this guy. Finally, I looked around…and there were only
four of us. The Big Engine looked around
too, and let off enough so that we could all put in some work. Then, after I took a pull, I found there was
only three…Big Engine had run out of go.
We worked together, and all I can say is…I was literally cross-eyed by
the time we hit the outskirts of Morris.
Cyclists call this the “pain cave,” and I was definitely
spelunking. Regardless of finishing
place, it is that kind of thing that tends to make my day.
Three hours, 29 minutes and some change, and I crossed the
line. It was still freezing, but I was alive,
and they had free pizza, so altogether, it was a big win. 42nd out of 104 wasn’t too bad for
my first attempt. All I had to do was
the same thing next week…just add a couple thousand feet of climbing.
One week later and about 40 degrees warmer, I was rolling up
to the starting line in Hastings ,
MI
At this point, my easy start played against me…as I found
myself hurtling headlong into a haboob.
Yes…that’s a thing…look it up.
Seeing and breathing suddenly became a primary issue, although the
secondary issue of staying upright at 30 mph on a gravel surface on tires 34 mm
wide made sure all synapses were firing.
Soon, the cloud settled, and the speed rapidly reduced, as we were
introduced to the Three Sisters…a dose of reality in the form of triple steep
hills that reduced some in the crowd to walking…and a harbinger of that which
was to come. I was able to clear all
three without a complete redline, which was good, considering the 59 or so
miles that lie ahead.
Of course, just like the week before, I ended up on my own
after the hill. I could see the speck of
Jon’s jersey up ahead, and decided it would be worth the effort to try to catch
him. It took me probably 3 miles, but
eventually I tucked into the back of his group of 6 or 7, and was again able to
settle down and ride a reasonable pace.
This was a pretty strong group, and I was pulled along well. We hit a road section, and the pace picked
up…and suddenly, we were enveloped by the speeding front end of the Masters group
that had started 2 minutes behind us.
Our group swelled to probably 30, and a proper amount of ass was
hauled. Being used to riding on my own,
it was slightly unnerving to be moving so quickly only inches from other
riders…I did my best to stay all the way right…on the very edge of the road…so
as to leave a way out should someone crash.
It was pretty thrilling…especially so when the group hit a gravel section.
That group eventually thinned out…a section with some 5 inch
deep sand pits saw to that…and the miles kept ticking by. One particular incident of note…on a speeding
downhill obscured by dust…the road suddenly made a hard left. I managed to slow myself and unclip my inside
leg to counterbalance on the loose surface to negotiate the turn…but a number
of riders blew straight through…unable to stop in time. I suspect they went off the edge of some
canyon, Wile. E. Coyote-style.
At about mile 50, I noticed that the uphills were starting
to take their tolls. Jon and I were in a
strong group of maybe 30 riders…but at each rise, one or two guys would pop off
the back. I was on Jon’s wheel when he
couldn’t close a gap, and gave him a word of encouragement as I passed…and then
saw him no more. Not that it
mattered…because by mile 57, I would not have recognized him even if he were
next to me!
Boom. Well…it wasn’t
exactly THAT dramatic. It was more
like…”that sign said 5 miles to go…come on legs! Legs?
Hello? Are you guys still
there?” And the sad part was…I knew they
were still there, because I could see them churning away…but I could no longer
feel them or make them do my bidding.
Slowly…agonizingly…the group left me behind. I shifted gears, spun faster, stood up, tried
a bigger gear…nothing was waking up the zombified stumps between my hips and my
toes. It was suffer time, and whoever
threw the huge hill in with 1-1/2 miles to go was possibly my greatest
enemy. My brain burned with the curses
my mouth was too tired to issue forth, my legs screamed similar curses at the
pain center in my brain…and I just wanted to be done, thank you.
The final swooping turns into town were an ecstasy…and even
though I couldn’t make my legs go faster, at least they stopped being such
whiney bitches. My good friends Keith
and Marcy had turned up to cheer for me, and they saw me two blocks before the
finish, which was cool as I had someone to catch me if I were to fall
over. I crossed the line in 3 hours, 19
minutes…something like 163rd out of almost 500 riders. A pretty good effort, I thought, and one
which certainly justified the two hot dogs I ate in approximately 35 seconds
post-race.
So…there’s my official R-bikes.com race report(s)…and,
ideally, I’m just warming up. The big
race is still to come. And now I can say
I wrote a blog entry in 2016.
No comments:
Post a Comment