Vive Le Roy

April 8th. Easter, for the God-fearin’. Wells Ave. ‘A’ race. Cold and windy.

Why do we race again? And why am I writing about Wells Ave.?

Dave C, John B, Roy and I are there from the team, with a special appearance by Barry. Everyone else wisely stayed abed, but they shall think themselves accursed that they were not there, and hold their manhoods cheap whilst any speaks that rode with us on Easter Day.

**Ahem**

Almost immediately on the heels of the gun an IBC rider takes off into the wind; brave and alone. The NEBC gang masses at the front, getting organized and preparing to chase. Roy, ever willing to do something foolhardy, rotates off the front and asks if he should join the soloist. Dave says he can’t see why not, and Roy needs no more encouragement. Toby Walch joins Roy—the price you pay for attacking right off the front—and they are off to the races, or at least the first leader prime. There’s still 30 miles to go.

The pack throws a few random jabs, including a very convincing charge by Ward Solar, but nothing really seems to be going anywhere. I start to think that if only I could get Andrew Boone and Ward together then I could join Roy up front. Right idea, but off by one: Boone and Gavin Mannion bolt and I decide to put my money where my thoughts were and commit. Boone yanks us right off the front of the bunch and I’m killing it, solo charge mode, just staying in his draft. He’s looking for help but I point out that I have a friendly in the break, and thus am not obligated to do any work. Andrew rebuts that if we get up there, I can assist my teammate.

Oh, I will.

When we get clear enough of the bunch, and close enough to the break, I start to do some work. Gavin is throwing down, too; this kid and his bike probably total a hundred pounds, but it’s a hundred pounds of forward. Still, credit goes to Boone for doing the lion’s share. We latch and the group isn’t slowing down at all. It’s early season here in New Belgium and not everyone has remembered all the niceties of bike gaming, like how to rotate in a breakaway, so Boone and I are exhorting the guys to be smooth, tight, and not be heroes. Just through and off, dudes. We work out the kinks and pick up even more speed.

40 seconds … 35 seconds … 25 seconds … whoops, wrong direction … 35 seconds … 45 seconds … 50 seconds … minute five. Must be some good blocking back there. Even the halfway prime doesn’t destroy the smooth operation of the group. I’m impressed.

With about 8 miles to go, IBC folds. A couple of miles later, Boone attacks pretty hard but the break re-forms, minus one. VeloEuropa, we hardly knew ye. Roy and I are the only teammates in the break, and after Boone’s attack we reshuffle and he’s on my wheel. Toby and Gavin make a couple of attacks, but I manage to keep Roy pinned to the back of the group. One last attack going into the final two corners, but Boone and I close it, then I let Roy through to the two leaders. They attack again on the final straight, and I rush in to cover my sprinter, tugging him toward the lead pair, but there’s still daylight and I’m not making up enough ground into the wind coming out of the finish.

This is when Roy goes whoosh. He crosses the gap, right into their draft, then around and game over. I was never so happy to sit up in a sprint.

Turns out he won the first prime, too. What, no halfway prime, Roy? Slacker

Back in the pack—which ended up being maybe 20 seconds ahead of us by the finish, close enough that I was starting to mull over what to do if we lapped the pack—Dave was apparently anywhere and everywhere, jumping on every move like a starving bike racer on the last piece of free pizza after Sterling. That’s hard enough on the average day, but this was on a day when the break passed dropped riders left and right. Even Barry said that Dave rode like two men, forgetting to mention the work he and John did blocking and the fact that he took 5th in the field sprint.

Dave, I think Roy owes you that Shaklee prime.

Club Clinic, take 1

Today was the first (of four) NEBC Introduction to Racing clinics this month. Yikes.

Occasionally we debate who should properly attend these clinics. When I say “we,” I mean, “no one with any authority whatsoever.” On one side of the debate are those who argue that the word “racing” is right in the title of damn clinic. They say, if you don’t want to race, then why come to an intro to racing clinic?!

I can understand how they feel. It would certainly make what has turned out to be a popular clinic—and therefore a big drain on volunteer hours—a lot easier for the club to run. On the other hand, as a product of these very clinics, I know that I personally wouldn’t be racing if I hadn’t attended; I also know that when I joined, racing was the furthest thing from my mind.

Bike racing! OMGWTF! Scary scary scary! Pavement and speed and crashing! Owie!

You may note I was a little bit risk-averse. But my point here is that without the initial taste of racing afforded by this clinic, and the confidence that I wasn’t walking into a blind alleyway where I would be mugged by a platoon of skinny lycra-clad dorks, I never would have dipped my foot into the real thing. Now I am a lycra-clad dork (and I was skinny before I started). But if we discouraged people who weren’t sure they were going to be the next Lance then I wonder how many missed opportunities to grow the sport that would add up to?

So … usually, Barry and I pair up to lead the most race-ready group of men, guys so ready that they sign up for a race clinic and then don’t bother to attend it. This tends to irk me a bit, considering that I traded four Saturdays of racing and training for four Saturdays of standing around in the cold in order to teach racing skills to a bunch of newcomers (who, lest we forget, are all off racing). I give them ten out of ten for fearlessness and taking the initiative, but minus a few hundred for courtesy, especially since the clinics do fill up and by registering and then not attending they take a slot from someone else who might have actually bothered to show up. I have to say that these are usually some really nice guys, but, you know, use your loaf to do more than make your helmet sweaty.

This year I was determined to get a different experience, and in the end I opted to lead the middle group of men. I can’t remember any of their names, which is really unusual for me, but they seem like a really nice group of slightly blurry guys. I’m hoping they stick around for all four sessions, but I have to admit that things did not go so well this morning. I felt like I had been out partying all night but didn’t remember it. Not only couldn’t I remember any names, I also couldn’t keep my train of thought on its tracks. So, in order to top that, I had to begin using opposite words.

Did I say keep your inside foot down in a corner? My bad, I meant outside foot. Hoods? Drops? Pretty much interchangeable, from a topological point of view.

Wow.

To anyone in my clinic group last Saturday I apologize completely, humbly, and very sincerely. Luckily, all my winter riding gear is from my old club, and maybe all the students will think I race for a different team. Better yet, when I show up in my current kit, maybe they’ll think I’m a completely different person.

Yeah, there’s another Todd, he’s kind of a mush-mouthed dork. We keep him around for the amusement value. This Todd is coherent, will remember all your names, and also remembered to shave this morning.

Afterwards, I rode a while with the attending members of the NEBC Elite Women’s team. It was the best-behaved group ride I have ever done. Not a single driver offended, nary a Stop sign blatantly run. It gave me a new way to appreciate the stereotypical complaint that men are always in a rush.

PowerTap!

We have four PowerTaps in our house. Does that make us nuts? No, it makes us right.

Well, sir, there’s nothing on Earth like a genuine, bona-fide, electrified, four-gauge PowerTap!

What’d I say?

PowerTap!

What’s it called?

PowerTap!

That’s right! PowerTap!

powertapowertapowertapowertapowertapowertapowertapowertap

That’s a lot of money to spend…

Borrow it from your Master friend.

Dave Lloyd hates them … he’s the man.

Here, try Coggan’s training plan.

What about us data freaks?

You can play with CyclingPeaks.

I hear that they won’t make you stronger.

No, for that you must train longer.

I swear that power is your only choice…

Throw up your hands and raise your voice!

PowerTap!

What’s it called?

PowerTap!

Once again…

PowerTap!

But Mass Ave’s still all cracked and broken…

Sorry, friend, the crowd has spoken!

PowerTap!

 

With apologies, of course, to The Simpsons.

Marblehead

The new team kit got an airing at the Knucklehead P/1/2/3. Well, I say “new team kit”; I mean it’s new to me; I’ve been a member of NEBC as long as I’ve raced on two wheels but it’s been a while since my license said “NEBC” on it. It felt odd to be back in the NEBC colors, sort of like putting on your high school varsity jacket and realizing it still fits, but that suddenly no one recognizes you anymore. Hysterical. Nevertheless, I did my best to look badass despite the amateur kit, and who knows? It may grow on me.

What didn’t get an airing was the new team bike, still in the process of being built. But it’ll be ready for when the real racing starts, and should do wonders for the level of badassitude I can project.

Marblehead is not my favorite race, but apparently the team was really stoked to do it, or at least some of the team was, or at least most of us assumed the rest of us were stoked to do it, or something. I think my main reason for not loving this race to death is that it’s a short, hard race in the early season when I’m still in long, slow mode, and also the fact that everyone just gets so damn het up about it. It is a good course, and although the locals seem to insist on parking their cars right on the course—one lady was standing in front of her car taking pix of us, bless her course-obstructing-soul—the pavement is OK and the views are great. But if they wanted to do this race right they’d give us the entire road to race on—it’s not like we don’t use it anyway. Still, we got out and raced, so mission accomplished. Let’s go have a cold one.

The sad part of the story is that the next real race is Palmer. Oh, sure, there will be Wells Aves in between, but Saturdays are committed to the NEBC clinic for the month of April, and the one good Sunday race before Palmer is the one weekend I can hang out with my daughter, so that’s out. Post-Palmer should see a real paroxysm of racing: Jiminy, Sterling, Sunapee … quality races all, plus assorted minor outings on the other days.

What about the race? Let’s just say you could tell I wasn’t that into it. ;-) That’s enough said for now.