ride joe ride

The thrust of my report from Bartlett was that where in the rankings I am makes less difference than how I actually compete. That said, it’s also time for me to make a decision as to which race I am going to focus on.

I’d like the input of the (maybe) three of you who read this.

It’s getting colder, my two potential races are at opposite ends of the race day, I need to drop the double race excuse, I am feeling the cumulative effect of a lot of racing for a little dude like me in his first race season, I am much more a morning person than late afternoon, and Mr. Miyagi warned me about “you cyclocross do yes or you cyclocross do no. you cyclocross do maybe, you get squished — SQUISH — just like grape.” For these reasons, I need to decide between five more weeks of Masters 30+ races or 4b races. Honed up or destroyed, I’m done with same-day doubles for the season.

I could give an argument either way, but that’s basically sophistry, so I’ll just state my inclination:

I am leaning toward the M30+ races. My goal in the 4b races is a top 10 finish, and I feel like that is achievable all things considered. I’ve been knocking around the top 15 on days with lots of excuses not the least of which is racing twice. My goal for M30+ is a finish in the top half of the field, which usually means around 15 or so. The feasibility of this is much harder to gauge, but it’s probably much(!) more unlikely. If I could be magically handed either, I am pretty sure I’d pick the latter.

On the one hand, the M30+ racers are more skilled across the board. So any position gained seems to be very much one that is earned. This sounds disrespectful of the 4b race, but even at the back of the M30+ race there is very little room for not knowing what you’re doing if you are trying to maintain your position. And of course, the hope is that some of that hup hup rubs off — even if it’s early in the race before I get dropped.

On the other hand, there is something very different knowing you’re racing for mid-pack (me in 30+) versus racing to keep contact with the people who might win (me in 4b). Maybe my inclination toward the M30+ is a comfort thing. I spent the first year of running ultras working my way up into the mid-pack which is where, excepting a very few top-quarter finishes, is where I stayed. Because of the way they are organized, I never really had to concern myself with making the top ten.

So, what say ye? 30+ or 4b?

Oddly, I think this was my first cross race today. Let me try to explain.

The fifth installment of the Chicago Cyclocross Cup was held at Barlett, and marked the half-way point in the season. The course was a good one: a mostly grass course with a runup hill, a larger section on mud than any previous course in the series, a trio of barriers in a s-curve (which I could have done without), and a very long concrete straight which we traveled with the wind at our backs. And there was wind in spades. According to the NWS, the wind was a sustained 20mph with gusts in the mid-40s. This translated into more speed on the straight than I could do anything with in my smallest cog. With temps in the upper-40s, all that was missing was a nice rain shower to achieve epic cross weather status.

I started from the second line, quickly found my pace, and started working on my one goal of pushing hard through each and every transition. In my first-lap exuberance coming out of the rocket-fast straight I managed to blow through a taped turn and hurtle into the oncoming traffic. Without hitting anyone, got back onto the course and went back to work.

By the end of the first lap, I found myself in a group of three other guys: colnago dude, pinarello dude and xxx team Killjoy dude. At first, I had my sights set further up the road, and I was jumping hard out of the corners to try to put them behind me. At several points, I pushed until I was getting close to popping, and was satisfied to see a sizable gap open. Unlike my previous experiences with this, though, the gaps weren’t sticking. Pinarello dude looked like he was warming up for another race — he was clearly stronger than he was working. Colagno dude was working hard and hanging with me no matter what I was doing. Any gap I opened was quickly swallowed back up.

At some point, I realized that these guys weren’t going anywhere, so I started to work with them. We traded pulls, and with the wind drafting was actually pretty effective. Without a doubt, working with these guys pushed me to a more consistent race effort than I’d had before. We were all thinking the same thing I’m sure: use this group until a weakness opened up and then nail it. As it turns out, I was the first to crack. I was at the back of the group. Coming into the triple barriers I overshot my dismount, rammed my front wheel into the first barrier and fumbled my bike. Coming out of the barriers, colnago dude looked over his shoulder, saw me six or seven bike lengths back, and hammered. I tried repeatedly to bridge back up, but by the middle of the bell lap, I could see it wasn’t going to happen. I rolled across the line, found colnago dude, congratulated him, and thanked him for a really fun ride.

On the way home, I began to realize that this “race within a race” is the essence of cyclocross for me. One of the questions that everyone in my position should should ask themselves is “why do I race?” It’s not as if I am one day going to break through and go pro. If I keep racing against the monsters in Masters 30+, I am going to count it as a major victory if I can simply make the top half of the field.

So why do this then?

When I started cross, I thought that is was utterly different than ultrarunning. Ultras definitely have two modes of competition. For a very few people, they are about potentially winning, and for nearly everyone else they are a test of the self and the ability to overcome. When I toed the line for my three hundreds, I can say with complete honesty that I didn’t care where in the rankings I was as long as I finished.

It’s true that cross isn’t about just finishing (despite how it feels sometimes). What I realized today, though, is that it is all about testing yourself. More importantly, and very similar to ultras, it’s a sport in which you can test yourself under duress and enjoy exceeding perceived limits. During the race, other people become dynamic waypoints for your own progress — things to test yourself upon. They have to be studied, reacted to and ultimately overcome. Sometimes, they prove insurmountable, and then a limit is set and a challenge laid for another day. This seemingly limitless potential for growth is intoxicating and deeply seductive. Yes, I know it’s not limitless, but some part of me refuses to believe that. It’s the part of me that is always ready to try to dig deeper, and push harder — the state of hope that will have me at the registration booth next week with my $25.

Edit: A photo of colnago dude and me, along with a guy we’d just caught. Image by Velosnaps, with post-production by me.

Race reports are fun, but honestly the entire perfect, golden, cool fall day at Carpenter Park can be summed up by listening to this song. No, no — listen to the whole thing. If I had some video from the race, I’d make it over-exposed and fuzzy and set it to that song.

If you’d like a more verbose (and in English, as opposed to Icelandic) version, here it is.

The course:

Arguably one of the best yet this year, possibly taking second only to DeKalb. It was flat, grassy, bumpy as hell and technical. My first thought was that the race would go to the big-engine people, but it wasn’t nearly as fast as it appeared at first glance. Lots and lots of nice corners to mock you for using your brakes. As flat grass courses tend to be, it was very difficult with few places to catch a breath without sinking back through the ranks. The little runup with three, er two, barriers got steadily steeper as the day wore on. The highlight for the spectators was the sandpit with all its crash-inducing fun. Oh, and there was a ravine to jump. Good, good stuff.

Act 1:

I am now getting comfy with the idea that the Masters 30 races are, for me, like playing basketball with weights on your legs. I place badly in them, and they are simultaneously painful and humiliating. But man, when the weights come off for the 4b race, they certainly do make you feel light and springy.

The highlight of my Masters race was my first front line start for a big kids race. I suppose the lack of a pre-race hangover was making me feel cocky because I decided to line up along side people I had no business toeing the line with. Coming into the hole, I was in the top ten and I got my first taste of big kid starts. The dude next to me picked the same line I did, and I leaned into him. In a 4’s race, this is usually like sliding your way through a crowd with people kinda melting out of the way around you. Instead of melt, though, I got a curse and a hard shove back. My race face, which has unfortunately returned, doesn’t allow capitulation to that sort of thing, so I shoved back. I don’t even know who ended up getting the line as I think we were beyond the turn by the time we stopped the shenanigans.

Like my previous Masters race (I am striking last week from my memory) after burning all my matches trying to hang on to the fast guys, I fell into a pretty good rhythm. I passed a couple of people who were popped, and had a nice long chase-down of the dude I couldn’t get last week. I got him, and I kept up the crank for the 45 minutes, so it was a decent race. As a bonus, more people finished behind me than at previous Masters races — I was 23 out of 27 finishers. The top 15 is going to be hard to crack with these guys.

Interlude:

The race was held in conjunction with Carpentersville’s Octoberfest, so no more than 10 minutes separated me from my finish and a place in the beer garden. Yes, I got top spot on the “get to the beer garden” podium, and I do think I deserve some flowers or a stuffed lion or something. Cleverly, this establishment was placed at the end of a nice long concrete stretch of the course, so you could sip your beer while cheering the racers on. We proceeded to do just that for a couple of beers and some awesome mexican junk food. Yum. My drinking of beer was my signal, of course, that I was done for the day. One race, especially a M30+ race, was plenty.

Act 2

Yeah right. If you sit around and watch a cross race for long enough, sooner or later you’re going to want to ride. We moved back out to watch the fun in the sand pit for Devon and Aspen’s races. By the middle of the elite race, I was starting to think that maybe another crack at the course would be a good idea. After all, it was a gorgeous fall day, and we were here. When the 4a’s went out for their warm up lap, I joined them. My between-race nutrition was somewhat less than ideal (beer, elotes and nachos? you think?) but I had that very nice sensation of returning to a course that I had already been abused by. All the line hunting and wondering where to brake was more or less worked out. Awesome. Shaky legs and all, I was doing the 4b race.

Fast forward to our line-up. Huge field (64 starers). Tim McGovern, fellow UCVCer, got a call up for his 13th place standing (yeah Tim!) and when the unwashed masses were called up next, I slid in behind him on second row. If you’re not on the front, it’s a good idea to line up behind someone who is not going to miss their clip and get off their bike to figure out what’s up.

We were off, with me hanging around the top 10 in a group chasing the lead group. Unlike any previous race, I kept a hot pace for a solid first lap. This had the effect of dramatically reducing the number of people who came whizzing past when we settled down. Also a first for me: I found myself riding in a group of peeps who all looked like they were shooting for a good finish. I would hang with these guys for almost the whole race, trading spots occasionally and losing a few people. By the end of the race we were down to three of us, one being Erik Norstrom fellow UCVCer and member of Team Tati.

Erik and I duked it out over the next laps, and by that I mean I did an awesome job of sucking his wheel. I managed to get in front of him a couple of times, but he was riding the sand pit with some serious skill while I was running it with somewhat less skill. By the final lap, he and the Pegasus guy we’d been riding with had a good 10 seconds on me coming out of the sand, and they lit it up for the remainder of the lap leaving me behind to admire the cascade of golden leaves coming down in the cool fall breeze. Okay, I really wasn’t looking at the leaves at that point.

I decided that I needed some practice with my victory fist pump, and since I didn’t have anyone actively chasing me, I gave it a shot. Yeah, that works much better on pavement than bumpy grass. I got one arm up, realized I couldn’t get the other up while simultaneously getting two eyes full of salty sweat. So with both eyes closed, one hand on the bars, I careened toward the officials’ tent. I got my eyes open just in time to see people starting to move out of the way and to hear one official say “just cross the line!” I did so, and I was done. 16th of 61 finishers. Less admiring of leaves, more cranky cranky and maybe I can crack the top 10?

Good times!

A note for the gear junkies: Both races were conducted over my newly built set of tubulars. After a whole lot of undue analysis, nail biting etc. I decided to just take a shot myself at rebuilding my set of Mavic GP4 wheels with a cassette hub. I built the rear wheel last Wednesday (lots of fun!), test rode it to work sans glue on Friday, glued some Vittoria XGs Friday night, rode a shakedown cross ride on Saturday and raced on them on Sunday. I glued using the “belgium” method: a good layer of glue on rim and tire, wait 30 min and then mount using tape (tufo in this case). I ran 33/30 for pressure at the race and the tires were rock solid. I am seriously convinced that I couldn’t have run anywhere near that without pinch flatting due to the course’s bumpiness.

At the thought of writing a race report for this week’s installment of the Chicago Cyclocross series, excuses begin to rise from within like the whipcreamy head of a good Belgian beer. Unlike Belgian beer, though, excuses suck. Basically, the course at Hawthorn Woods contained a bump approximately the size of god’s knee, and riding it was like being repeatedly cracked like a twig over this divine knee. But instead of god, it would have to be the devil’s knee, since the setting was approximately as hot as hell. I sucked, possibly worse than normal, but once again the glory that is cyclocross managed to overcome even my suckage. I had fun. Instead of a boring race report with me analyzing whether tall socks would have made me go faster, I’d like to tell some stories.

Story 1: Don’t forget your Vittoria hat

This is going to sound like an excuse, and maybe that’s because I have already been using it as an excuse. I went to a concert in the West Loop on Saturday night, and toward the end of the evening, I was walking out of the bathroom and heard “Hey nice Vittoria hat!” I was, in fact, wearing my favorite cycling cap. I turned and nodded to the dude, figuring he was a local racer type. It wasn’t a local racer dude, exactly. It was actually Christian Vande Velde. I stopped nearby to pretend to look at posters to confirm that I was right. I was. I walked up and tried not to act like a lame ass. I didn’t succeed very well. I found myself telling him that I was just in the bathroom (no really) thinking that I was going to get my ass handed to me in the cross race which was approximately 9 hours away from me standing there with a beer in my hand. He flipped my Vittoria hat brim up, and said “that’ll help.” Clearly this was advice coming from a PRO rider and not a DS. If it was Vaughters standing there, he would have probably taken the beer out of my hand instead.

Story 2: Why I don’t need tubs

I thought I’d gotten to the point where I wanted the race to just stop, but honestly I don’t think I REALLY wanted it before this race. I was seriously praying that something would break on my bike. I was nailing the pavement transition corners hoping for a flat, and while doing so I had an epiphany: “Holy crap, if I had tubs, I couldn’t even hold out hope for a pinch flat!” No really, at that moment in the race I knew the utter foolishness of switching to tubulars. Sadly, nothing broke.

Story 3: Embro mud pie

Mad Alchemy embrocation really works. Perhaps I should have taken that into account before slathering it on before a race with temps in the low 80s. All was relatively fine (with the exception of the sucking stuff) until after the race. My legs were covered with drying mud which created a leg/embrocation/mud sandwich. Crunchy mud, spicy embro and fried leg — yum. I was so wasted that I could only sit at a table drinking water while my legs sizzled away, even though there was a hose a few yards away. Pathetic. On the positive side, when I finally managed to make it to the hose, the mud worked well as an exfoliant.

Story 4: I finally lost my race face

So yeah, I often look dumb when I’m racing. I manage to maintain a “I’m going to get you” attack face when I’m cruising by myself midpack. Well, I managed to shake that this weekend. No really, see here (thanks to Chloe, Lou Kuhn’s daughter, for some seriously nice photography). I think being cracked over the divine (or anti-divine) knee left me with “please make it stop” face. As I crested the ride-up part of the hill on the last lap, I was slobbering, dripping sweat and had snot pouring from my nose. A spectator (it takes a special type of spectator to want to see people at the top of that hill) said “looking good” and I yelled “HA!” I then proceeded to botch my remount and ram my saddle nose directly into my arse, almost sending me over the bars.

This cyclocross is some good stuff.

(part 1 is here)

6 a.m. came somewhat earlier than I would have liked. Soon Devon and Aspen came by and we were on our way to DeKalb. Day 2 of the trip, mildly hung-over and on to the next course. Now it was beginning to feel like an epic weekend. We got to the park and quickly headed out for a reconnisance lap. The course was gorgeous — easily my favorite so far. It was fairly long, with a nice technical section full of hidden roots to slip on, a big run-up which reversed on itself for a really wicked off camber downhill (much carnage on that later in the day, though I managed to escape it with only a fall on this practice lap). Then it dropped down onto a paved walking path for a speedy section, and into an uphill stretch in some thick, deep grass and a single barrier. Throughout the day, the uphill grass section into the barrier would leave me totally tapped and slowing down each time I went through. A bit of single track, some tricky corners, and back to the finish. Simply awesome.

Somehow, I found myself signing in for the first race of the day: Masters 30+. These guys are exceptionally fast, but I decided that it would make a good warm up and hangover shaker. I was right on both counts. When a guy on the front row of the start waved me up to an open spot, I smiled and said “that’s not part of my game plan.” Ha, that was the truth. The start was wicked fast. Fast fast fast. I was soon sitting by myself in (what I thought was) DFL. After the first lap, this yielded a kind of detachment from the race that was exceptionally instructive. Freed of the simple desire to push as hard as possible, I began to realize that I was actually moving through the technical sections of the course faster when I was going at a significantly reduced effort. Without redline haze, I was able to pick better lines, stay off the brakes, and come into the power sections with much more spring. I decided I needed to apply this later in the day in the 4b race. I did manage to go down three times including my first experience with hitting the deck directly in front of someone. There is nothing quite like looking over your shoulder to see a wheel coming at your face. Thanks for not running me over man.  I was shocked to find out that I was not last when I pulled in. 16th out of 23, and lots learned. I actually liked the pacing of the 45 minute race and will probably ride the 30+ races again.

After finishing, I found Allison and tried to simultaneously help her work up her courage to race while also tending to myself. Thanks to both Aspen and Devon for once again shoring up a person’s willingness to jump into cross. Meanwhile, the weather went south as the women’s 4s lined up. Heavy rain began to come down in sheets treating us to a very Belgian cross course. As Al raced, I met up with Steve and his dad, and attempted to repair the “warm up” damage of my first race. A little kringle, some cheese curds, a whole lot of coffee, and I began to feel okay again. Meanwhile, Al was doing a great job of making it through her first race with exceptionally little preparation. In her words post-finish: “I threw up, I crashed, and it hurt like hell. That was awesome!” Can there be a more ringing endorsement for a sport?

Before long it was time to line up again for the 4b race. Instead of taking a practice lap as the official suggested (I’d been around the course enough) I took a bathroom break and was rewarded with the chance to pick which side of the front line I wanted to start from. Once again, no excuses in this race. Though nobody backs me up on this, I actually let out an involuntary attack scream as we went off the line that caused the dude next to me to swerve a bit. I was third or so into the “hole” which in this case was a hairpin turn and resulted in some contact with guy next to me (sorry about the elbow mountain bike guy).

On to the first lap. I was tired as hell, but I had the advantage of having lapped the course seven or eight times. As happened the day before, over the first lap I slowly sank from near the front coming into the hole to 15th or so by the end of the first lap. Also like the day before, I found myself spending lots of time following a guy. At one point, Aspen yelled “pass him!” from the sideline, and somehow the suggestion stuck: I pulled around him coming into the fast barrier and spent some time moving up. This seemed like vastly more work than simply trying to hang on to him, though, and he soon made his way back around me. By the end of the race, I was barely hanging with him and found myself having to push to keep from losing contact. This is seriously something I have to work on: from what I have learned so far, moving up in the cross field means being able to willingly force yourself back into suffering after moments of reduced stress (technical sections, catching someone’s wheel etc). The adage is that “cross is all about the transitions” and this is exactly what I think it’s referring to.

I managed to hold off another couple of guys in the last bit (muttering “no crashes, no crashes”) and pulled across the line in 16th out of 40-some just as the sun was beginning to break through. My fourth race was in the bag. I was exhausted and utterly content. I finished somewhat stronger than last week over the whole weekend,  I think I learned a great deal, and (most importantly) I got to spend a couple of days enjoying the combination of cross and friends. In summary: a really epic weekend.

Years ago, I used to spend most of my weekends rock climbing. I looked forward to this time of the year as it would mean a whole weekends spent outdoors in crisp fall air alternating hard physical effort with enjoying watching others do the same. When I realized I could tag along with fellow UCVCers, crossers extrodinare, and all around really awesome people Devon Haskill and Aspen Gorry for two days of cyclocross racing, I jumped at the chance. Two solid days of cyclocross, road tripping and enjoying time with friends. As I’d hoped, the weekend turned out to be an epic one. In two parts, since I am feeling long winded.

Day 1: Saturday

Saturday morning we headed north toward Wisconsin and the Cam-Rock race near Rockdale. We arrived in time for registration and a practice lap around the course. We found lots and lots of roots, some hills that we can only dream about in Chicago, and a course which was much more like a mountain bike trail than anything I’d ever ridden in my limited cross experience. The run-up was long enough to actually allow shouldering the bike (a first for me), and it had a set of downed trees as barriers — lots of fun. I decided to opt for significantly higher tire pressure than I’d been using to avoid pinch flatting over the roots. A little Mad Alchemy embrocation, and I was ready to ride.

In a first for me, I managed to score a dead-center front row start position, and suddenly I realized that my “bad position” excuse just went out the window. Uh oh. We were briefed, and went off the line for an uphill sprint on the road. Within a second of my first kick, I learned that a front row spot still doesn’t mean a wide open sprint lane, and my lack of aggression landed me 5th or so into the hole. This was perfectly good though, because within the first half lap, I saw another 10 people come blazing by as I settled into my pace. I realized by the end of the weekend, that lots of damage can be done to your opponents during this period, and it makes sense to ride a hotter than sustainable pace for as long as it takes to shake things out.  In this case, I fell in behind a guy who appeared pretty competent and sucked his wheel for most of the race occasionally trading a pull or opening up a gap. One of my biggest cross difficulties is making myself pass someone who is going just under the speed I need to be at. It’s so easy to follow the other guy’s line and have your marching orders dictated. I need to just stand up and pass. Next time. Near the end of the first lap, we heard a gunshot ahead and rounded the corner to see a guy throwing his bike into the bushes in disgust. Yeah, I can see that.

By the final lap, I had enough gas left to start to push the pace a bit. I’d begun to realize that if you can suffer for a minute to put a gap between you and the person you just passed, they almost never climb back on. I got in front of the guy I’d been following and realized that  another couple of guys were closing in. In my final run down the big mountain bikish hill, I finally descended without braking. I think it could have been in part due to the realization that if I crashed I would also stop. Pulling into the last portion of the last lap, I think I had my first moment of applied racing tactics. I knew that if I had a good position on the three guys around me, that I could easily take them on the sprint up the hill. I pushed the pace up again to open some distance, and took the line I could tell the guy directly behind me was heading for into the turn leading to the sprint. I heard him brake as we hit the corner, and I gunned it. Two kicks on the pavement, and I knew I had the sprint. That sentiment lasted 3 seconds, until I looked down and realized that I was flatting. I yelled some profanity as the guys blazed past, and then limped across the finish for 18th out of 53 or so. Later I’d realize that I must have caught the lip of the road in my exuberance — the pinch-flat hole in the tube was huge.

At the finish line I proceeded to do some serious hacking. The penalty of all that wheel sucking was a nasty lung full of fine black dirt. In between coughing I noticed someone had a frame for sale in “pick you own veggies” style. Closer inspection revealed it was my size, and an awesome deal. Bob took my money, I took his frame, and I sat down for a nice afternoon of watching Aspen and Devon tear up their races. Gorgeous fall day, good beer, and cyclocross. Sheer perfection. We headed back to Madison: me to Steve’s place and Devon and Aspen to their friends’. We agreed to meet up at 7 the next morning.

Prudence would have suggested I make it a nice easy and early evening given the races the next day, but I’m generally bad at being prudent. I had a frame which would be fun to race the next day, and Steve has what is essentially a fully equipped bike shop along with a deep appreciation of my suffering especially as augmented by inappropriate beer consumption. Oh and he also has lots of beer. So instead of a nice relaxing evening kicking back a few beers and hitting the sack early, we decide to build the new frame up with the components from my empella. Steve’s dad, who was visiting, was patient and kind enough to go along with the plan. With a brief stop for dinner, and a quick run to the shop for a bottom bracket, we put in several hours building the bike and drinking a reasonably vast quantity of beer. By the time we hit the bike path for a maiden voyage, it was close to midnight. The christening celebration lasted somewhat later.

Tomorrow, Day 2: an account of the DeKalb races.