Into the woodshed

I don't think I've ever experienced such a battle in the final lap of any race as I did Sunday in Carpentersville, number 5 in the Chicago Cross Cup series.

After the typical first lap disaster on probably the most technical of courses yet this season, in which I went into the tape twice and endoed once, not to mention getting passed at each barrier remount, I found myself in a knife fight for a top 15 placing among three other riders, Sasha Reschechtko (Tati), Justin Merkey (Rhythm Racing), and Tyler Avery (Pegasus). We constantly stole and gave up lines to each other turn after turn, or tried to drop each other in the pitted and rutted straightaways.


(Bill Draper)

As we raged into the final sweeping arc before the last u-turn to the line, it was Justin, me, and Tyler. I shifted to the big ring and tried to pull away but immediately we were elbow to elbow. I stupidly was still trying to move up on right, but that would've sent me into the tape and a tree on the final right u-turn - or would've crashed all three of us out, so by time I dropped back to reposition myself, it was far too late. Tyler broke free at the same time, and I crossed the line 3rd out of that group for 16th place.

I was pretty pissed at myself for misplaying the end, but once the High Life was cracked open and I was watching the 4Bs negotiate the pump section, all was again right with the world.

Overall the best day yet spent racing this fall. I had my best placing yet in the 30+ (22nd) - even while washing out on the first lap heading into the pumpers and face-planting in a turn - and the long-awaited Chubby Spud found its way into my hand once again:



Incredibly, I've moved up two places in the overall standings to eighth - wait, are we rewarding mediocrity here? I'm gonna have to start red-baiting this obviously socialist series?!? Don't worry, my much-harder-working call-up mates; I'm traveling the next two weekends in a pumpkin-carving, cider-drinking, corn-maze-claustrophobia-panicked fury, so that current placing will drop with the November temperatures. While Bryan Lee is getting his call-up dressed as Lady Gaga in a raw-meat skinsuit, I'll drinking all of my dad's beer while handing out Halloween candy on his porch wearing a wrestling mask.

Graceland

Thank you BBVP, Team Pegasus, and Chicago Cross Cup, for another stellar race in the 2010 series. Last year, Dan Ryan Woods was a vicious kick to the baby-maker, and renaming it Elvis Cross changed nothing. Well, almost nothing:


(Bill Draper)

It was hard to get out of bed, harder to get to the office today, and hardest to even stay awake once there:



30+

My placing in this category has trended downward since opening at 23rd in Jackson Park. The races have gotten more technical and hillier (or obstaclier, in DeKalb) and the competitive top half is getting stronger each time out. I started mid-pack, but then moved back quite a few places while trying to ride up the left-side singletrack: the first time I got caught behind teammate Paolo who had just taken a rear wheel on the chin, upending him; next time I lost traction all by myself, then locked up the front and endoed, finally getting back on once out in the sunlight only to start spinning my cranks madly, not going anywhere. Through the depths of my tunnel vision and frantic gasping, the cacophonous clanging of cowbells, I hear off to my left, oh so casually, “chain’s off.”

Thanks, guy.

Passed a bunch of dudes, ran up the hill on laps 3 and 4, and they all passed me again. Then I passed them again, and I said, “screw it” and decided to try one more time up the singletrack. FAIL w/endo again.

The race was still tons of fun however, mostly because a Team Tati rider in an old U of C kit wouldn’t let me pass him the last time of the second hill, cutting off my line and then opening a gap. I couldn’t quite close it through the final switchbacks, but didn’t let it get any wider by time we were hitting the last barrier. He phoned in the last 200m and I sprinted past him at the line for 33rd. It's the little battles that count for crossers like me.

After some recovery, I staked out some turf by the first 180 turn for the start of the Cat 3s, and nearly became the first off-the-bike relegation in racing history. Mr. Knauf approached to let me know it was Elvis Cross, not Dice Clay Cross. Sorry if I offended anybody.

I promise, later on I had some very clever, PG heckles.

4A

I got a call up for 9th overall, and was 5th wheel into the first turn, but I took it really wide, found the crowd coming up inside, and then after the chaos of the mud (WTF, is this the triathlete division?!) it jammed up terribly and I went through the 180 nearly at a trackstand. I was 8th or 9th coming up on the hill behind a little bit of a gap, when teammate Nick Venice came past like I was waiting to put my bike on the 147.


(Bill Draper)

And that was the only thing interesting about that race. Dropped my chain again. It’s funny how you can hear certain voices amid all the heckling, cowbell, and moments of singular pressure. Kirby’s voice cut through my brain like a knife.

I always lost places on the hill. There was one high point I’ll concede, when a VCS passed and tried to drop me on the second hill the second lap, but I wasn’t having any of it, and stayed right on his wheel. He was slower in the turns and that was the last I saw of him. Oh, and the Elvis sighting after coming down the hill, he passed me fast, with a, “on yah raght, brother! A-huh-huh!”

It was a good feeling to know that my 8th time up that hill was the last. 13th place. I'm still 10th overall and in line for a call up next race, but I won't be spending the entire weekend driving out to the suburbs, so I'll just be racing Carpentersville on Sunday. I can only hope and wait through Saturday's race in Waukonda.

Note the ethereal mood of this picture:


(Sue Wellinghoff)

Heaven will always be post-race. The endorphins will freshly flowing, the cooler will always have one more cold beer inside, and a new field of 4Bs will be just about to start. Oh, there's a cupcake...

Donzo:


(Sue Wellinghoff)

Flyover Country

It was a 7am departure on Sunday morning with teammate Evan to Dekalb - far west farm country - for the second race in the Chicago Cross Cup series competition, Hopkins Park.

That's a long way to drive just to ride your bike and drink beer, and I skipped this race last year. Two things convinced me to go this time. First, I'm a bit more dedicated to the discipline now, looking to stay active and have a lot of fun, if not experience great results. I've got a cyclocross bike now, so I might as well use it. With the four races, plus practice I've already been able to get in, I'm seeing better technique, new fitness, and getting to know and hang out with a lot of cool racers.


(Carborocket)

Second, was this:




And by that, I meant this:


(photo by Luke Seemann)

Yes, an honest-to-God flyover. I love cyclocross.

Masters 30-plus

We arrived with enough time to watch the Men's 40 plus field finish up their race and even then I heard it was a somewhat rough transition from the ramp to the grass. So by time I was at the line getting the pre-race instructions from Dave Fowkes, "have one foot in and be off the saddle" the ramp was already in my head. I have a hard time getting in my clips and I was imagining my feet being jarred off the pedals and being castrated before the first lap was finished.



And sure enough, each time up, there were people laughing and heckling me and screaming at me to "just go!!!", still other racers behind me - shoving to get past or jeering. It was about as embarrassing as any number of personal events involving puberty and hygiene in front of the classroom from 6th through 9th grade.

There is new entry to the Heckle Hall of Fame: "Next race I hold your bike for you!" by Michael Kirby (xXx Racing). Thanks, Kirby.


(Upper-left, by Larry Stoegbauer)

I passed riders, the same ones, multiple times, because they would come flying fearless past me again at the top of the ramp, while I flailed to get my foot in the clip before rolling. As well, even the straight sections of the course were riddled with hidden dips and potholes in the grass, preventing me from really attacking to close all the gaps I was giving up. No big-ringing it like at Jackson Park.

Thankfully I wasn't so slow to get pulled and I was able to get the full 45 minutes of pain and suffering in. 6 laps in all. I was somewhat disappointed with my effort, all the same, as I didn't have that same queasy feeling and retching from that last Masters race, two weeks ago, probably from six dead-stops at the top of the flyover, helping me to recover.


(Larry Stoegbauer)


4A

While waiting for the Men's Cat 1/2/3 race to start, I took about five or six practices of the flyover and down the other side, enough to where I felt comfortable jumping back on and rolling immediately. It was good to get that out of the way, and let natural ineptitude in the hole-shot sprint fuck things up, per usual.

I actually had a decent line coming out of turn 2 onto the bike path pavement before trying to make up ground on the left dirt shoulder, and then losing five or six spots coming back up over the pavement lip. Even worse, in mid-hurdle over the subsequent barriers, I smacked my head into a tree-branch, knocking me off-balance and catching myself in a Twister-like pose over my bike before righting myself, losing another three or four places. Then, I settled down, and into my usual cyclocross routine of playing catch-up and holding off those trying to do the same to me, and getting back into that top ten.



The flyover obstacle was much more fun this time around; I took it two and three steps at a time, and comfortably hopped back on and roared down, back up to speed with no issues, save for a few late clip-ins that prevented me from hammering right away.


(Sue Wellinghoff)

I was really deep in it this race, hacking and grunting, out of the saddle and in the drops, just trying to catch Tony (Beverly Vee Pak), Jonathon (Courage) and John (Main Street Bicycles). I really had no idea where I was, but catching them, and then seeing teammate Nick Venice in my sights (in 6th overall) I knew it was close to the front.


(Carborocket)

After coming down the barrier the last time with Tony right behind me, I suddenly heard the crowd roar in surprise: "Oooooooooh!" and looked back to see my pursuer off his bike. I found out later his carbon seat post snapped at the jarring transition back to the grass.

I am practically under contractual agreement to only say that you all know how I feel about carbon fiber components and a five-figure salary. Moving on.

The thing about the catch is it teases you forever. The rider ahead of you barely seems to be getting any closer for minute after interminable minute, and then suddenly, you are on top of him and passing quickly. Nick was still way out in front of me with only six turns to go, but then with with just three, he was behind me.

Based on some shouts from the crowd to a rider behind maybe a lap earlier, I was positive I'd just moved into 7th place. The last turn was a treacherous 180 around a tree, right in front of the crowd, over jarring, exposed roots. It was very easy to take it too narrowly and find yourself through the tape, or lose your traction and slide-out. Thankfully, I took it perfectly and sprinted as hard as I could, keeping the gap open behind me.

That effort was much harder than the 30 plus in the morning. That is what motivation will do for you. That kind of pressure in front and behind you will have you dry heaving in grass, struggling to catch just one more gasp of air, all with a smile on your face, because by yourself, it just isn't possible. We race because it's impossible to push yourself that hard any other way.

I had 11th place. Exactly the same as two weeks prior in Jackson Park. Hey, consistency is a good thing. The other top 10 placings were quite different this time around, and as such, with a couple of earlier upgrades to the 3s by others, I'll be getting a call-up this coming Sunday at Elvis Cross, Dan Ryan Woods, for 10th 9th place. (upgrades -woot!)

Giddyap.


(Carborocket)

Jurassic Park

(pix by the amazing Steven Vance)

No, not quite. Although I had a startling realization as I was filling out my waiver on Friday night for Coach Randy's Jackson Park race-eve skills clinic, that my cyclocross racing age is actually 39...so next year that won't be too far from the truth.

A dinosaur on a bike.

However, since this year I'm still the spring chicken in my 30s, I ponied up for the Masters 30 Plus and the 4As. You have to double up in my situation. The 4s races are too short, and when your team is hosting, you gotta be out there. Maybe next I'll do the hat trick with two masters races and the 3s.

You guys can yell sandbagger all you want, but I'm staying in the 4s this year until I'm either on the podium or forced to upgrade. I may have Cat 3 power, but I have Cat 5 handling skills, so I think the 4s is a safe average on which to net out.

Anyways, Jason Knauff hates my constant blogging and called me out on my call up...so Jason, here's to you.

I pre-rode the course - another A+ design by teammate Greg Heck - as the 40 plus men were staging and twitching to get the 2010 Chicago Cross Cup season underway. The course was long and fast - versatile, in fact - suited to both mad CX skills in the technical turns and off-camber twists; and to roadies, who could make up for their short-comings by hammering in the straightaways.



30+

I'll keep it short and sweet for a long and bitter race. Two and half laps in I was almost puking, after having started near the back and then turned myself inside out to work my way up to 25th or so in a sold-out field of 75. Coming past the wheel pit I tried to hawk one but it got stuck halfway, stretched out between my throat and dangling down my chin. Trying to then force it out almost made everything else come up as well.

Pushing hard past David of Roscoe Village and a very determined Martin of The Pony Shop, the last two laps I could only keep the pressure up and held on to a well-deserved 23rd place. It was my best placing by far in an open field, so I was pretty happy with my effort there.

4A

As I mentioned before, I got a call up in this race. Traditionally, and for the remainder of the season, call-ups to the line are given based on your overall placing. The starting line is ten wide, so a call-up is like gold in a racers quest for the hole-shot. But since there were no results to go on, the call-ups at Jackson Park were awarded on a lottery basis, rather than last year's placing as had been done in the past. And with 10 names out of a pool of 75, the odds weren't that bad.

And truthfully, in my second race, I wasn't too surprised to hear my name called with Sister Sprocket's third dip into the paper bag filled with names. And then to hear Erik's name right after I rolled up.



The starting sprint was madness, with two big crashes in the opening turns. My technical skills were a real liability in this race and soon the podium gone. Patty, with Jack, and her sister Rose and niece Kaila watched from the mid section where they could scream and heckle multiple times as we doubled and tripled back.



I did cling to the Top 10 for most of my blazing three laps, until the very end when I was passed in a turn (where else) by Lew of Rhythm Racing. The gap closed little by little in the closing meters, but ultimately it was too late - 11th place - and I won't be getting a call-up on October 3rd in Dekalb, the next race in the series.



The 4B started right where it left off last year, with every level of fitness and skill represented in their three laps, and more heckling than a heathcare townhall meeting in Tyler, Texas.

Huge thanks to Illlinois Cycling, Chicago Cross Cup, all the officials, the sponsors, and of course, all the teams that showed up and made Sunday such a spectacular opening to the 2010 cyclocross season.

July

Before my most recent post, I last left you with a slight rant on Elston Avenue bike commuting. Thankfully, that post, written on Thursday July 1st, covered the last time I was to commute home down that harrowing stretch of Third World, Mad Max-inspired road, replete to the last with cabs darting into the bike lane and left-turning SUVs jerking back and forth in the intersection like a meth-addict trying to act normal as it strangles the cat.

For that night upon arriving in Independence Park, I gathered some things, and left for Edgewater to help Patty move her things down the street and spend my first night at our new apartment.

Patty's move was a quick and easy one, for she was only 2 blocks east on the same street. We had the help of several friends plus a late 90s Mazda, and we were eating pizza and drinking ice-cold Old Styles by 8:30.

I had purged all of my own furniture - every last bit of it, not even a folding chair remained - to the alley and to friends, so I had only boxes, and of course, the bikes. The next night, Friday, Patty and I took the Damen bus (it's northern turn-around is just a few blocks from us) to Irving, where we met some of my now-former neighbors for some heavy German food and refreshing summer Kolsch at Resi's Bierstube. The next two days were to be completely bike-free, and BBQ free, July 4th though it was.

But we got it all done, in hot-as-balls weather, sun beating down on us. We crammed it all in, and even though we'd gotten rid of half of what we owned, for the life of me I thought we'd never find a place for it all.

We did just in time for my parents to see it, less than a week later. I've come quite a long way since my mom used to arrive at my college apartment with a look of horror on her face and started scrubbing the place from floor to ceiling. We were even able to sit and drink coffee and watch the finish of Stage 8 on my laptop.

After an evening in which the waitress at my favorite local joint, The Edgewater Lounge, berated my stepfather for tipping 15% - and I then complained to the manager - we were off to Michigan for my cousin Paul's wedding.

A beautiful outdoor affair, amidst simple white trimming on the grass overlooking the bluff - I saw the sun set over Lake Michigan for the first time in my life.

We toured the S.S. Keewatin, a steam ship that ferried Canadian National Railroad passengers, in two and half days, from the western side of Superior to the eastern shore of Huron.

The following weekend my sister Maggie arrived from North Carolina to volunteer and have free evening access to the Pitchfork Music Festival. It worked out quite well for us. Me especially. I'd been worrying about a bit of contraband in my bag making it past the security checkpoint, but volunteers just walked right in through their own entrance. We were set. Security told us they needed wristband jockeys for the beer tents and people to watch the fences for jumpers.

I was told to assist at the vendor check-in, where four hipsters had made a break for it the night before, three successfully. Living dangerously, they scoped out their chances and took a running start from the sidewalk. Security had since set up a fence behind the table and forced a chokepoint, which I was to menace accordingly, with my arms folded, so everyone showed ID. The hardest part of the job was deciding what free food I wanted from the Chicago Diner booth, and listening to Real Estate.

Jon Spencer Blues Explosion absolutely killed it, as did Wolf Parade, Panda Bear was sadly out of place, and LCD Soundsystem had us dancing our asses off, working up a final sweat in the residual heat left over from the since-departed sun.

Hard to believe I was finally able to race competitively after all that time off the bike last week, and by competitively I mean not get dropped. I certainly didn't sniff so much as a top 20, but I did race three times in Milwaukee, Kenosha, and Whitefish Bay to finish up Superweek. The first and the last races were in support of my teammate Mike Seguin who pulled off a huge 2nd place overall in the series.

All of the races were brutally hot, and Friday really got the best of me. It was a 30 mile criterium, so I didn't have the benefit of Matthew Stevenson handing up bottles of ice-water to us. In fact, I'm so used to packing just one bottle for a 45 minute race, that it didn't dawn on me that I'd need three for a 75 minute effort in 95 degree heat.

Needless to say, that last sip of water with 15 laps to go tasted like hot chicken broth. I finished at least.

And here I sit. My self-imposed facebook exile continues. I was encouraged and disheartened at the same time to read this article today (thanks Leah). It confirms that Facebook is the new AOL of the 2010's...entirely self-contained internet. Except it's not for those who are too scared to go out on the world wide web, it's for those who are too lazy.

I will probably have to go back on at some point, at least to get pictures back, or for some professional networking. But right now, I feel like an addict who's been set free. I've been without a television for a year now, so I suppose this is the next logical step. At least I'm writing for myself again. I don't know if this was even interesting to you, but it feels good to unload the brain again.

Brian's Dairyland

It was quite a bit shorter than the full 11 stages that began last Thursday in Shorewood and ended today in Waukesha. I also didn't get any chocolate milk or a spotted cow jersey, but my own tour of Wisconsin included plenty of cheese, Spotted Cow beer, and lots of fun racing.

After transferring all my gear from the I-Go Honda to the O'Hare rental and kissing Patty goodbye, I was on my way to Greenbush, Wisc. for the stage 8 road race in the Tour of America's Dairyland. Light traffic and a 7am departure netted me a great parking spot on the grass two full hours before race time.

Randy and Luke arrived as I spun and sweated on the trainer, even in the less humid, lower temperatures. It was going to be a perfect day for racing, in lots of sunshine, and I was very excited to be in the same 35+ Masters field as these experienced and wily vets. The only snag of the morning was finding a definite hole in my racing tubulars after hemming and hawing about a slow leak the night before. Oh well, SRAM was present for neutral support, just one more PRO aspect of an apparently very well run series.

Our 50ish-sized field rolled out on time, just behind the Pro/1/2 field, and neither Luke or I were familiar with the course, beyond what people had told us about from last year. But, even then, the 10-mile lap was reversed this year, so we'd just have to ride out and experience the first couple of laps and hope nothing got away before then.

The course profile went something like this, if memory serves:

A short uphill followed by a steep drop, then another up and down roller. Here, you had to be careful of the hot tar strips, very hard to see on the new blacktop. Very squishy, and your rear end fish tailed at the high speeds going downhill over them. Then a left turn and a false flat, followed by a quick drop, another fast left turn, a couple rollers, then downhill to a right hand hairpin turn. Here it got interesting with a series of uphill stairsteps which led to a fun downhill series of banking turns through thick forest (watch out for those potholes). This shot out onto rough chip and seal pavement through farm fields, which brought back the wind, and then turned left into it. The downhill speed quickly slowed and the pack bunched as riders looked to move up for the final series of downhill, banking turns, back through the trees and then into town.

Immediately riders were attacking but couldn't get away. The pack could chase too easily on the downhill, and there wasn't enough support that early on through the headwind. Much of the time the pace was downright comfortable and it seemed everybody was taking it pretty easy, saving energy for the hills or attacks later in the final laps.

Out on the chip and seal on the 4th lap, I was moving up when I heard Randy call me over. "Luke's off the front!" he semi-whispered. This caught me completely by surprise as I still thought he was behind me, but you all know how much I pay attention in races. Sure enough, there also must've been IS Corp in the break because they were up blocking and a dedicated chase was forming as soon as I moved to the front to do our part.

I sandbagged on two hard chase efforts, but coming through to start the final two laps, the break had slipped out of view, and the field's speed came down to almost leisurely for much of the next time around.

The final lap was a bit more competitive, especially up the rollers, where I really had to fight to keep my position and not to cramp. Through the twisty downhill section and out in the crosswind, Randy came by tapping my hip and we moved up to the front before the pack bunched up, where we held a great position. However, he was on the outside, while I remained up against the yellow, which was my undoing amidst the final argy-bargy of the last two miles. A lot of sketchy moves came past my left, squeezing me further and further and back.

If those guys really wanted to pull that shit for a 6th place $50 check, they could have it. I still had to go to work on Monday. Randy managed to hold his position and finish 7th in the field sprint, for 11th overall. I came in at the back for 37th, and heard Luke on the sideline giving me an encouraging yell.

4th place for him, out of a final five-man break. What a stellar result in such a talented and stacked field as an open Masters race! The man is crafty as hell, and can be counted on to find the one place on the course to make the move that counts. In this case, on those stair-step hills, and then leverage the wind and the blocking behind to get out of sight.

After saying our goodbyes over the requisite post-race Culver's, I was on my way to overnight in Milwaukee at my cousin Rick's place on the northwest side of the city. Friday I'd be headed back to Fon Du Lac, but tonight was dinner, beers, and visiting.

Rick met me at his house and we went and got some pretty good Mexican food, fish tacos for me:



After which we each got a haircut at his regular place, where they offered us a glass of wine while we waited, and I also got some locally roasted organic coffee. The woman who cut my hair, Christinia, was a triathlete and we talked bikes the whole time.

The next morning after Rick left for work, I spent a few hours at Milwaukee's successful local coffee chain, Alterra, over some housemade granola and a pot of French-press:



Then I departed for Fon Du Lac, the site of the series' stage 9 criterium, and to meet former teammate and good friend Rick Dearworth for lunch before the race.

The Fon Du Lac Grand Prix has been around for many years in one series or another, and is famous for it's fast speeds, with the long home- and backstretches. Today's trip past the start-finish would be blazing as well, with the tailwind down Main Street.

I was the only XXX-er in the field, along with a few other solo riders, including a Wisc.-based Pegasus rider who'd had some success in the series, and the venerable Voytek Glinkowski, of WBD-Allvoi. Verizon and IS Corp had several riders each, so I'd be watching their moves in the headwind of the backstretch.

It was a very dynamic race. Attacks were constantly going off in the wind, and the field was either chasing, or giving out the hangman's rope, and then chasing. I managed to be in a couple of early attempts and bridges, but midway through the race I found myself at the back recovering when the real assaults came.

Rick and Jared Rogers (who'd raced earlier) screamed at me to move up, but the chase was committed and wicked fast between laps 15 to go though seven or eight to go. I could only hang on to the end and try for another chance when, and if, it slowed. The good thing was that it was completely single file the entire time, so there was no rubberband effect, even at the end.

No brakes, just breaks.


(photo by John Gray)

Coming up on six to go, the field slowed just enough with indecision that I was able to move up and hear the announcer say, "Field prime! Set of tires to the field, starting with Triple X rider number eight-sixty-nine!" I had no intention of contesting a prime while leading the start of the lap, and after turn two I got out of the saddle for a medium intense effort to keep the pace up for the chase. I was waiting for the jump, and when none came, I looked behind and saw a huge gap.

Talk about the right place at the right time. IS Corp was blocking, the field was tired, and I'd just ridden away. I took the prime with five to go and started thinking about my chances to bridge up. I could see them about a quarter lap up, and I couldn't let the pack catch me.


(photo by John Gray)

The break was shedding a few riders, which I then caught, worked with for a half-lap or so, and dropped in the head wind. Approaching one to go, I was with one final rider, who, from the depths of my pain cave I can't remember, either bridged to me or I caught him.

Either way, I pulled though turns 1 and 2, and into the wind, then shook him off my wheel and fought his gap effort to come though turn four in perfect position for a pounce. Which I of course botched. I waited too long, with me just behind him; we started sprinting at the same time, and that's how we ended up, 7th and 8th.

"Sorry for screwing you," he said. "That's racing, dude. Great sprint!" I replied. I was pretty happy, feeling the 100% effort and having salvaged a top ten in a bridge attempt after having missed the move, not to mention avoiding having to go shopping for tires for a while longer.

Rick and I enjoyed a Spotted Cow together and watched the Women's Pro race from the AC comfort of the corner bar along the course, and then said our goodbyes.

I was in the town my parents grew up in, Kenosha, two hours later, despite all the construction and Summerfest traffic, to greet my dad and stepmom, and my aunt and uncle at their house. We enjoyed a classic lakefront Friday fishfry and cocktails and spent the night catching up.

After a morning active recovery ride to the lakefront, checking out the Superweek criterium course and getting some espresso, the next day we attended the family picnic in Madison. This long-running reunion includes Baers, O'Keefes, and Scharches, in addition to the Morrisseys. It was my dad's first time attending in probably 40 years, and it's been going on for longer than that. It was complete with several rounds of bocci and one dude bringing a full martini set up. But since I was driving, I had to wait until I got home for that much needed beer to end a pretty long day.

It was a pricey weekend to be sure, but a chance like that to merge family and racing can't be missed. I probably won't be racing again until the very end of Superweek, in Kenosha at the end of July. The Tour of America's Dairyland was an excellent series for the small portion of it that I experienced, and I definitely will try to plan next year's visit around the family picnic again.

Altitude effects attitude

Off to Asheville. I'll be thinking of you through the two hours tunnel vision while I climb this thing on Sunday.

So long, suckers! (wait...)

Going long

I've been itching some long miles, really long and slogging miles, since I came back from Georgia a bit empty-handed last February.

One of the best options for getting in a century out of Chicago is to head to the state line, as an extension off of the "Three Sisters" route that is popular on the XXX Racing team ride. My first experience with this wasn't until 2009 when Coach Randy led a fairly large group to the border last April. It was a beautiful, sunny spring day. Once past the spirited attacks through the rollers north of highway 21, aka Milwaukee Ave and onto highway 120, we settled into a pleasant rhythm, letting the base miles pile on like durable coats of paint.

We coasted through the Glencoe sprint, only to give it the afterburner in a scorching leadout train all the way down from Tower to B'hai Temple, where Cesar and Ed jumped out of the line, already moving above 30 plus, to claim the final hill for themselves.

I'd picked the day before Easter, April 3rd, as our "long day" this year. Coach was out of town for the holiday, and with racing both the weeks before and after, and then Asheville camp and the following recovery weekend, April was done. No matter then weather, April 3rd would have to be it.

So of course, the day could not have started out more ominously. The rain literally started to fall just as I stepped outside. I was dressed for wet success however, and undaunted, I met the small team contingent at Warren Park and we rode without incident, no drop, to Highland Park.

There, after coffee and some snacks, around 15 us headed north, unsure just how far we'd make it. I was stonewall set for going the distance, but rain came down in heavy, splattery drops. After leading out the University Hill sprint for some jittery newbs, we shed a few returners, more at the "Old School" turn off, and headed north into a driving rain.

It was Diddy, Tyler, Emanuele, an ex-pro cross country dirtbagger named John with calves the size of my thighs (and I'm constantly told I have the biggest legs on the team), one more who's name escapes me, and myself. We stopped at the Cemetery loop for a piss and to try to unsuccessfully get the contacts under my powertap computer dry - it hadn't been giving a reading for the last five miles or so - and I nervously thought I would get out-voted to press on. But everyone was still game, and soon we were splintering apart in "Three Sisters."

All I knew is that I'd attack John after the next roller. The next roller. The next one. And then we ran out of rollers. At the beginning he just put that chain in the 15-tooth cog and churned an 80ish cadence while trying to ride me off his wheel. For the entire set of rollers I was pegged at 178 bpm and couldn't coax myself to come around until Highway 120 was actually visible from atop the last crest. Once there I hacked up a wad of phlegm, fixed my computer, ate a bar, and we chatted for a couple minutes until Tyler rolled in, followed by the rest.

From there, after the next left turn off the east bound highway, it's straight north to State Line road. The rain came harder yet so did our resolve, and our smiles just got bigger, and our laughter louder. It was sideways as we came out of the truck stop on Randall Road, filled with hot cocoa and Snickers bars.

Soon we were rewarded, however. The crosswind was tough, and it took some resolve to stay together and not gap anyone, but by time we reached the paved bike trail at the North Chicago Metra station, the rain was gone for good, and the pavement had started to dry. 45 minutes or so later, I stopped at the entrance to Fort Sheridan to remove my rain jacket. And as we turned onto Green Bay road, we were bathed in warm sunshine.

Tyler led Diddy up to a flying John before Scott Road, and that cooked him, for then on Sheridan into Kenilworth it was just three of us. I tried a hard jump but the big man Diddy closed my gap and took the second sprint. One more roasted, for then it was just John and I going cat and mouse to B'Hai, and then cat and mouse with an indecisive minivan up the hill. Oh well, I took a cautious jump, cleared it and then gave it my all. I sat up, looked behind, and rolled off my armwarmers. It had to've been 70.

Slowly Tyler and Diddy regrouped with us, and we spun lazily back to Chicago through Evanston, a world away from the morning we'd started our ride in.

I headed straight to Susie's Drive-thru for a recovery meal that can only be eaten on days like this, even then requiring augmentation from my own fridge:



Oh, and that's not a tan-line...it's dirt.

Stick with what you've got

(photos by peloton-pix.com)

I had a big chip on my shoulder coming into this weekend. Saturday was the opening event for the Illinois Cup, Burnham Racing's Spring Super Criterium, in South Beloit. Days before the two hour drive to the state line northwest of Chicago, I knew I had something to prove.

In group discussions of tactics and "let's-win" scenarios, my name isn't mentioned very much. At all, really. Can't complain, it's my own fault. When racing for my own results, I botch things terribly, beset by indecision and fear of failure, waiting for the perfectly framed moment which never comes. In my fourth season, I am still looking for Win Number 1. Still, lack of respect is lack of respect, and I always take it kinda personally.

I know I'm a very strong rider, and even with more brawn than brains, that no one follows a plan more stringently than me. Taking my own risk of failure out of the equation clears the tactical picture for me immensely, and by declaring this year to make racing more fun and free-willed, working for others and destroying myself in the process, I'm hoping to become a much more instinctual racer. That will be a big part of removing the pressure to getting my upgrade to Category 2 by the end of the year.



The Category 3 race was stacked by my own XXX and Burnham, of course, as the host team. Each team had at least six riders. Tom Briney, Newt Cole, and Liam Donoghue had all declared designs on the victory, while (speaking for myself, at least) others only wanted match attacks, guard breaks, and lay waste on the final lap in support. The early laps played as though this script had been typed on paper.

Briney, Newt, and Liam waited a patient game while Chris Kinnonen guarded the front and Kyle Wiberg and I made sure there was red and black in each of the flurry of early attacks. Seemingly every couple of laps I was in a different iteration of the break, almost always with Recycling's Ben Laforce and Burnham's Jason Mindemann or Eric Goodwin. Don't hold me to that as memory in those situations is always a little fuzzy.

The breaks would always start with a solo attack by one of a few solo riders, and then would build numbers on late bridges by guys with support in the pack; that's definitely how I found myself in so many different groups off the front.

The last one I was in definitely had potential. Moving up the leeward left-hand side in the finishing straight midway through the race, I saw Kinnonen pulling the group with no support, then noticed a new break of three or four moving away, with no XXX representation. That was not good at all, so at the first turn I broke hard off the front. With someone in tow, I bridged into Ben Laforce's draft at the tail of a now sizable threat. I think we had a good gap for at least a couple of laps but were eventually reeled in. The shifting winds and March fitness disrupted the rhythm of a truly committed break; at one point wagged my left elbow and the dude pulled through on the windward side to my right.



As the laps ticked down, I saw more and more of Briney, Newt, and Liam who were holding to prime position. With 3 or 4 to go, Kyle was in a break of three, including Laforce, once again. As we passed turn one after seeing two to go, Kyle was drifting back to the group, with the other two riding away. I couldn't wait until the last lap like I'd planned. With the rest of the team behind me, now was the time to light the last match.

As we passed Kyle I dug hard into the wind without breaking off and closed the gap smaller and smaller. By the end of the backstretch curve (and me pedaling boxes) they were now easily within striking distance. As if he'd read my mind, Liam took off like an F-14 from an aircraft carrier. The move was so committed you couldn't not believe in it 100% and I whooped ecstatically after him, "Yeah, LIAM!!!" He caught the other two quickly and blazed away alone in the tailwind.

I sat up, got on the end to hang on by a thread with depleted legs, and watched Briney and Newt do their thing, which was fight for wheels like tenacious pit bulls. I could not have been more pleased as I coasted in across the line, dead last from the group, hearing Alan Treuthart shout, "he did it!" and then see Liam sprawled out on the grass, an arm raised in the air. Briney and Newt had made it into the top five as well.



A perfect ending to a perfect race. And later I found out I'd also won a prime, a SRAM chain with a powerlink, while pulling through on one of my early breaks.



Incidentally, I did all of that on a half-flat rear tire. Half way through, I began to feel squirrelly back there through the high-speed last and first turns on either side of the start-finish. I debated getting a wheel, but rationalized it was the wind playing with my deep Stinger 60s (but knew better). I didn't want to miss out on any of the fun I was having and it's a good thing I stayed with the wheel I had. I broke a spoke on my back up wheel somewhere between 25 or 30 minutes into the the Pro/1/2/3 race an hour later. Speaking of which:

After realizing my race wheel wouldn't hold air and putting on the back-up, my training wheel w/PowerTap hub, the 75 minute Pro/1/2/3 race rolled out with another XXX-heavy field. Included was everyone from the Cat 3 race except Chris, plus Ed Amstutz, John Tomlinson, Peter Strittmatter, Dave Moyer, and Scott Herring. The first lap and half were quite leisurely, and at the beginning of lap two when the pace was really lagging, I easily moved to the front in order not to get pinched in the turns by the widespread group.

Seconds after I found myself chasing the first of a violent barrage of early attacks, and even in a stillborn break for the rest of the lap or so. After that there wasn't much more I could do besides hang on to the tail of the dragon as the pace would often surge to 30mph-plus during the early attacks.

Finally about 25 minutes in it looked to be settled, with two separate groups off which would eventually form a group of nine. This included Moyer, whom I didn't see break away, and JT who I watched turn himself inside out into the headwind on a solo bridge to the second group.

Shortly after, people began asking me if I'd broken a spoke. "Naw," I casually responded. It was just my valve extender slapping on the deep carbon of the wheel. The joke of the Cat 3 race as well. With my calf-tattoos, I'm Cat 5 style forever, baby! Actually, not a joke all, I found after Nate Iden of Burnham rolled up behind me: "dude, your wheel is gonna fall apart!" Sure enough, I looked between my legs to see the rim "whupwhupwhupping" against the brakes. I really had broken a spoke. Rolling in, I realized my race wheel was unridable too, and there was no neutral support. So I called it a day.

I watched from the sidelines as the front group gelled cohesively and grew their gap to over a minute. With two to go they dropped to eight, and in the end, Tomasz Boba of WDT won the day, with XXX placing Moyer in 4th, JT in 8th, and Peter in 10th.

A really good day for the team, to state it politely. XXX Racing is now in the lead for the Illinois Cup overall team competition, not to mention the Cat 3 and 40+ divisions.

Chasing summer

Saturday, February 13

Clowning around with our morning downtime; little chair, big beard, bigger book:



Still recovering from our close call with hypothermia on Friday and faced with the very real possibility of not being able to ride again from our present location, we decided to head even further south and salvage what we could from the trip.

Coach Randy's brother Dean was in Orlando, and once he got hold of him and his okay to crash there, we were on our way. A quick check online also netted us a criterium just 90 minutes away in Dade City.

I wasn't too sure if I wanted to race or not, or even drive that far. The weather looked pretty good in Savannah, too, just five hours away, instead of 10. But the consensus was definitely in favor of a free place to stay and a race, so I wasn't going to stand in the way of that.

The weather is looking up that night:



Near the GA/FLA border in Valdosta, we found a very popular and tasty BBQ place:



It was just a straight shot down I-75 from Atlanta to the Florida Turnpike, and then another 30 or so miles to Dean's place. It was 11 pm when we arrived. I'd joked that he'd better have a grapefruit tree. The last time I was in Florida we'd enjoyed fresh grapefruit every morning. Not 10 seconds after walking into the garage, Dean said, "I hope you like grapefruit! We just picked over 300 of them."

There were already air mattresses and blankets set out for us, and after settling on an action plan for the morning, we were all asleep pretty fast.

Sunday, February 14

We drove an hour and half west after the nine of us enjoyed a breakfast of oatmeal and fresh grapefruit. It was a gloriously sunny morning, not a cloud in the sky. Arriving in the parking lot and going through my prerace routine - getting dressed, checking my equipment - all seemed like a dream. It was the middle of February and, yet, here we were standing in sunshine as the temps climbed above 50 (yet all the locals had on coats and scarves!).

I was simultaneously nervous and lackadaisical regarding the race about to happen. I hadn't planned on doing my first competition for another month, and Friday's climbing was the first real intensity I'd had since cyclocross in early December. I knew these Floridians had been going for a month and some would already be on form. But, just being here was surreal enough, so why not throw in a race?

Getting ready:



It was a six-corner criterium, part of a weekend of racing; we'd missed the road race driving down yesterday. The corners came quickly, starting with a slightly downhill right onto jarringly rough cobbles, then right-right-left-right-right-start/finish.

First race of the year, over a month ahead of schedule and I was definitely off my game. I went straight to the back, and there I stayed; afraid to move up through the rapid-fire turns. Partly to blame was that I wasn't as diligent with my equipment check as I should have been; my needing-to-be-replaced left cleat came alarmingly loose early. I didn't want to have my foot come detached during a dig in front of the whole pack. So I sat in, grabbed wheels, worked on my cornering, enjoyed the unique training.

Tom finished the best out of us four, 13th. Ben, wearing our XXX Racing kit for the day, was 18th. Liam was 26th, but that finish is deceiving: he spent over 12 minutes off the front, chasing the 2-man break up the road. I was 24th, out 33 that finished.

Randy, Dave, Brian, Ed, and Seth raced the Pro/1/2 event, 85 minutes plus 5 laps. Ed and Seth, either fighting or recovering from sickness, dropped out before the halfway point. The pace looked very fast. We watched Randy and Dave sit in the rear lounge for most of the race while Brian was very active at the front, even after a crash split the front nine riders in a breakaway from the main group. And off they stayed. Oddly enough, our boys weren't the only familiar face in the race: Andy Crater, formerly of Milwaukee's Wheel and Sprocket team, now racing for a team out of Asheville, NC, was in the break.

With five to go, crafty Randy suddenly worked his way all the way to the front of the main group. Brian put in a couple more digs over the final laps to string it out, and then it was over. Crater, who'd sat in on the break the entire time needed only six turns of his biggest gear to come around the leadout for the win. Brian, Randy, and Dave all finished in the top 30 spots.



We regrouped for a picture, removing our knee and arm warmers as the temperature topped 60, and headed out on a training ride over a couple laps of yesterday's road race course.



Things got pretty heavy pretty fast. Ed, bummed about his early departure from the race, decided to get some major work in and spent almost all of our second 17 mile lap at the front. The first lap was at time trial pace - it doesn't take much to get the stampede going, just a couple of overeager pulls or leg openers off the front. A fun ride for sure and great workout.



We spent another night in Orlando with Dean and Ginger's hospitality, enjoying a delicious white bean chili.

Monday, February 15

The next morning was a 6:15 departure and breakfast at McDonald's. Randy and Ed had an evening flight out of Atlanta, so their ride today couldn't end any later than 10:30. We drove a bit to a state park along the turnpike, and headed out on a trail in the growing sunshine and rising temperatures (although at that moment, my fingers were ice cubes and we all had on knee and arm warmers:

Rolling out of the state park with Ed behind me, it was a bit chilly:



Randy and Ed said their goodbyes at 10ish after 40ish miles, and the rest of us turned around and Brian led three more laps on the state championship road race course, nearly breaking all of us off on two giant hills. Each were about twice the size of Spring Prairie's penultimate climb, and followed by a raging descent. The second had a round about at the end of it, which you could zoom right through, no brakes, with the right line.

The second lap was the hardest and I was dropped on both climbs. Almost all of us were dropped by Brian on one of the laps. It was easy to reconnect however, and the four and half hours we spent riding that sunny Monday in 71 degrees were easily worth all the driving and Friday's suffering in the snow.

Computer geekout moment:

• 4.5 hours ride time
• 87 miles
  
• 211 watts avg
  
• 280 normalized
• 318 TSS

Post ride - Dave, Brian, Liam, Tom, Ben, Seth, me:


Whoa. We were destroyed. And had a 10-hour drive back Lake Burton, GA to look forward to. Luckily, we had time for another stop at the Smoke 'n Pig, which actually put us in an even worse stupor:



...and the weather cooperated as well, with no snow until the following day. Tuesday morning, I was incredibly tired, and slept in while Newt, Tom, Dave, and Liam got a spirited hour to town and back. As they were returning, I headed out for a short 30 minutes to explore the neighborhood around the lake.



Soon, we were off in our loaded van returning to Chicago.

47 hours of driving. 14.5 hours of riding.

It was all worth it, and if the van showed up outside my apartment right now, I'd jump in without any hesitation. I still can't believe I was ever in Florida, riding in the sunshine in my shorts. I sit writing this, fighting a cold, hoping I can manage even 30 minutes on my trainer, dreading the forecast of almost a foot of more snow coming overnight and into tomorrow.

We found the devil in Georgia...

...and hell had frozen over.

Thursday, 11:30 am

My fears that we'd have a delayed departure, completely understandable given the logistics of renting a van from O'Hare at 9 am and then picking up five more cyclists with bags and bikes, were proved unfounded. Seven dudes, - Dave, Tom, Ben, Newt, Liam, Seth, and myself - plus 14 bags and nine bicycles were rolling on Lake Shore Drive to a date with some epic riding in northeast Georgia on Friday morning.



For the last 10 days we'd all been feverishly checking the forecast for Clayton, GA and our emotions had been given a wild ride. The predicted weather waffled between gorgeous and sunny with 50 degree highs, to a depressingly familiar wintry mix and not seeing much above 40. We were relativistic about it, however, since the latest snowy blast just days before our departure had given us some perspective.

Cold weather sucks. Cold weather and flat terrain sucks even worse. The training potential in the mountains of Georgia would be worth the trip, no matter the weather. How bad could it be?

The trip south was very entertaining. A drunk diver just ahead kept us rapt through most of Indiana. Kentucky greeted us in spectacular fashion:



Backseat Tecmobowl on Liam's laptop:



We counted no less than five Family Inns along the two mile main street through Pigeon Forge, the hometown of Dolly Parton and the Vegas of the South, if minigolf were gambling. Gatlinburg is only slightly less rednecky and a thousand times more consumerist, with its Ripley's Believe it or Not museum, aquarium, and Hard Rock Cafe. Thankfully, it ends in blackness almost as quickly as it began, and soon we were winding through the solitude of Great Smoky Mountains National Park and the dark country roads beyond.

We arrived at the lodge shortly after midnight, with the time change. Brian was already there from Miami, and Coach Randy and Ed arrived within the hour from their flight to Atlanta. Newt had arranged for us to stay at his extended family's vacation home, and it was an absolute paradise. We'd all chipped in for his mom Jane's ticket down, and upon arrival in the rural dacha - replete with mounted trophies, a pool table, satellite TV, and 10 beds - dinner and homemade cookies were ready for us.



We chose our beds, unpacked enough to be ready to ride in the morning, and turned in late with the plan to ride the next day as long as it was dry.

Friday, February 12

We ate breakfast and watched the apocalypse unfold on The Weather Channel. 49 states received snow that day, or would. Pensacola. Oklahoma City. Dallas received 11.5 inches for God's sake. It was only a matter of time before it reached in our mountainous little hole just north of the Chattahoochee National Forest. But we figured it still couldn't be as bad as riding through Chicago's north burbs again, and up there was deeply covered in the white stuff.

Out we went.




It was very similar to my training rides in Asheville. Two lane roads, little traffic, run down shacks next to palatial plantation estates, ridges and hollers. Over the rollers we rode through the crisp winter air, dead grass and bare branches, ancient tractors and rusted cars filling in the rest.

One of the goals of coming to riding "vacation" like this, a camp, is to climb. The group can stay can together on the flatter parts at endurance pace, and on the mountains, it can be allowed to break up while everyone gets the intensity they are seeking - knives in the quads, flame in the lungs, tunnel vision. Then comes the descent, roller coaster fun, bombing corners as safely as you can - acquiring vital skills for fast criterium racing and cornering without brakes - then everyone regroups at the bottom, with no one dropped and lost in unfamiliar terrain.

First up was the famed Brasstown Bald, a stage-finish of the now-defunct Tour of Georgia. The gate was closed just after the turn off, but we decided we'd go until was no longer safe to descend what we'd just climbed. Soon we encountered a bit of snow, and maybe a half mile later the leaders stopped ahead due to sketchy gravel and other scree beginning to cover the pavement.

But I'd climbed well. Not sure if the others were holstering anything just then, but the gap hadn't grown very large at all. I'd pegged my heart rate about 90% and felt ready to go hard all the way to the top. Sorry to say that as far as we could go. Brasstown is one of the harder climbs in the country. Its last few hundred yards are in excess of 18% incline. It would've been great to add that climb as a notch in my seat post. But there we turned, and kept it calm and safe on the way back down. Even here it would be far too easy to slide while banking hard in a corner.

Before heading to Hogpen Gap, another climb in the old race, we stopped at a general store for water and fuel. The climb was steeper and longer than what we'd just previously done, still nothing like the torturous days in Asheville, and we soon encountered our first fresh snow. I was dropped by the group this time, with a more severe gap and came up eighth out of ten. Arriving at the gap at the top of the ridge, we stood there, incredulous:



The descent down took us below the snow immediately and the pavement was quality enough for full speed and barely any brakes. Good stuff. Dave, Tom, Newt, and Ben were working as a group ahead, while I was gapped slightly behind them. We reformed at the bottom, realized we were 50 something miles into an 87 mile ride, and decided to keep it together for remainder home. One last big climb remained.

As we curved up the ridge top the snow fall grew thicker, wetter, and heavier. Some of us were getting cold. Brian and Liam rode together just off the front of us, and a couple had fallen behind the pace on the way up. We regrouped at the top of the ridge and the snow was steadily falling with an ominous accumulation.

People began to shiver and question their ability to safely make it home. We all descended that last climb perilously in slick conditions, pumping the brakes while our faces were stung with the airborne ice and sleet that was forming in the lower elevation. At the meet up down there with core temperatures falling and stress levels rising, Ed and Seth decided to knock on the door of a house across the road and the Good Samaritans living there took them in. Brian bailed at the BP station, and Randy, in his ever-unflappable manner, announced we had 18 miles to go and led us off.

At first, the snow turned to mostly rain and I still felt strong and warm beneath my waterproof shell; but the spray from the road was soaking my winter bibs and gloves. Soon my fingers were going numb and when Randy said, after a seemingly interminable stretch of riding, that we still had 11 miles to go, I had to deliberately switch my mindset to do-or-die.

The sleet turned back to snow. Now I was was shivering. My fingers couldn't sense the shifters - not that it mattered. My chain was stuck in the 17 cog by ice accumulation. The brakes were caked in snow and dirty ice and would barely move. The descents were terrifying and the climbs treacherous, as the gearing was too much torque in the snow and the wheel skidded with each turn of the crank. A flat now would be disaster. There weren't many cars coming by now, and with my body struggling to keep its temperature up, I could be a half hour away from deciding to take a "nap" in a drainage culvert.

My only thought at this point was to keep Randy in sight, once he'd finally announced that we had two miles to go. Then I knew we'd made it. I was still terrified at the thought of those still behind me, and the slow, personal, shivering hell they were each experiencing. I began chanting "thank God, thank God," when I saw Randy signal right and turn off the highway, and soon I was following his tire track to the driveway of the lodge, dismounting my bike, and tromping in through the front door.



I couldn't get my gloves off fast enough. I was hesitant at the same time, afraid to see blackening fingers, but I knew that a stinging pain would follow the numbness in true frostbite. Instead I saw pale raisins and then immediately felt a burning agony as the blood began to flow back into them. Randy pulled off my shoes covers. My hands couldn't grasp the wet rubber soles and pry them over my cleats. Several times I doubled over shivering as my body sensed the warmer temps inside and began to expend all the energy necessary to try and elevate my body heat.

I jumped immediately into the shower after frantically getting the rest of my clothes off. I felt waves of warmth rippling through my limbs and up my neck. As I stood there with rivulets of hot water flowing over my eyelids, cheeks, and lips, Liam, who'd just arrived with Dave, Ben, and Tom, came running in asking for my camera, even though Tom was shivering uncontrollably in the next room. Still, he had a point:



His camp name was "Jedediah."

Tom eventually stopped shivering. We recovered that night over homemade meatloaf and veggies, and then ice cream and beer, and began to discuss our plan for the next day. More snow was forecast and we were deliberating heading south.

Next up, racing and riding in Florida. To avoid keeping you in too much suspense, it didn't suck: