 |
| Another day, another race. |
10:10 AM: The Cat 3 Yellow field rolls out. I have finished the clif bar, passed the wrapper out. No extraneous trash or weight. I surf the neutral field, finding the lines where riders move up, working the white line. I make the bridge in the front ten or fifteen riders. Much better than last year.
Mile 22: The field has been sedate. We have already passed Juniper Swamp. Two riders move forward at the feed zone. They take no bottles; I stand up, gun it, bridge up to them alone after a thirty-second effort. Five or six other riders join us and we begin to work. One rider is pulling too hard, gapping us. I pull through, but not too hard. It is still very early. Nick offers me a gel. I decline. I am compact, stable, preternaturally aware of turns. I call them out well before anyone else. We will be caught by the next dirt hill.
Mile 29: We ease up into the dirt. The sun is in our eyes. I hear a note of alarm in a voice declaring us caught. I do not mind. I try to make the case to Michael; they have to chase us up a hill. I ride by Jeff, Alex is working hard. We pass Veronique's barn. I wonder why my car is not parked out front. Over the next few miles a couple riders will stay out front, cooking their legs. Forgive them, Battenkill: they know not what they do.
Mile 39: Cheese Factory Road. Level, meandering, recently graded. It was covered in large loose gravel chunks. The pace picks up here. The pack remains largely together. A chunk of dirt hits me in the mouth. I hear large rocks bouncing off carbon. I imagine the rocks are bouncing from bike to bike. I fishtail, struggle for a line. Mike is riding in the wind. A rider attacks hard but without real conviction--we are all working hard, and he will not get very far away. I am frankly confused. The pack is a hive animal, reeling back in the two breaking riders.
Mile 41-46: the pace has lifted permanently. We see glimpses of our pace car. We pass our wheel Jeep on the side of the road. No flatting now. The grinners and laughers are no longer grinning or laughing. I remain in hiding. We make the catch, and a collection of new riders moves forward. I am low on my bars. The course is a hyena with its ribs showing. It lurks, and I wait for it to claim the weakest.
Mile 48.5: At feed zone 2: I take a bottle from Greg. He is all business, and perfectly positioned. I see Beth too late, my own bottle bobbing above heads. I take some gel. Meetinghouse Road: I am suffering in earnest now. Forgive me, O Battenkill, for I have sinned. Since my last confession I have eaten three carryout Little Caesar's pepperoni pies and seven Domino's pizzas, each time with at least one and sometimes two chocolate lava cakes. I have eaten entire tins of delicious roasted cashews, boxes of cheap granola bars, and endless bags of craisins. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. I get low and descend hard, taking a clear right-hand track and passing to the head of the field. I coast up as far as I can before pedaling again. There is no relief on the crest, riders waterfalling over loose gravel into the next pavement stretch. I hold position as we regroup. I remain in cover. I am afraid to assess the size of the pack, but someone says we are fifteen.
 |
| I am trying to break your heart. |
Mile 56.1: Stage Road looms to our left. I squeeze out half a bottle--I have not had time to drink nor will I again for the rest of the race. I pull across and move to the head of the pack. I find the smoothest line and climb by myself for ten pedal strokes. The others move up. I climb in second position, but I am losing ground. I stand, I sit, I grind on the pedals. I am out of my mind. I am Teresa skewered in holy bliss. I am breathless, stupid, automatic. I am right behind.
 |
| The Oregon State Hill Climb champ over my left shoulder. |
As the road turn up one more time, two riders move forward, a third. They crest. We are mere yards from pavement, and the rider to my right hits the ground. I stare deep into his eyes as my front wheel misses his head by inches. Everyone else seems to have stopped, but I shoot forward and crest the hill. The rider in third is big, descending. I am frantic, tunneling nose-first over tarmac. I whip the pedals, passing him, and coast up to the lead pair of riders, deep in oxygen debt.
Mile 58.8: We have no business being out front. I do not understand where the rest of the pack has gone. They will catch us, I am sure. I come around and pull, we rotate smoothly. We can see that the big rider is chasing. When I am slow to pull through the smaller rider jerks his head around, searching for me. I stay low, I kiss my stem tenderly, caress the hoods, drape my hands over the bars. I glimpse my wattage; it is enough. I want nothing more than to stay in front. I tell them so. We are pulling hard and well. The chase will not catch us. The final kilometer signs pass. I begin to realize what is happening now. I always knew it would. I rest. I am bigger, I think, I can outsprint these two. It does not matter if it is true. I feel my legs twinge, well done lumps of charred steak.
Mile 62.1: With three hundred meters to go, I float back. I cannot believe they would let me rest on the back. I find myself clear, and I jab, spinning up hard for five seconds. Everything goes red and my legs feel like numbed stumps. The first rider responds, charging, and the other catches his wheel. I swing behind and fight for second but I am done. It is finished.
 |
| Pilfered from Jeffrey Pacailler |
Needless to say, I'm tremendously pleased with a third place in such a race, and pleased to have made the move and put myself in the final selection. It's been a year or so since I behaved in any sort of sprinterly manner, so I know I have room for improvement. Battenkill 2012 is in the books, and with two podiums in two years, I have no regrets. As importantly, I got to spend the ride home and the rest of the weekend with good friends.
 |
| In the presence of cat 2 greatness. |
 |
| Who doesn't love chocolate milk? |
No comments:
Post a Comment