The Busted Helmet crash two years ago. The Pinky Finger crash last year. The Puff of Dust crash this year... PIR has been more than a little unkind to me. I've never been fully comfortable at that venue. It is different than a road race. It is so wide, the pack is unconfined, able to wind and weave around the 60 foot wide track. At a road race, nobody is really moving around too fast because the road is so narrow. It's easy to just hold a position relative to another person and keep people from penetrating your comfort zone. But at PIR, everybody is pretty much free to ride anywhere they want. They come over the top of you, sweep around you in corners, cut close through a gap near your handlebars. Especially in the fields with Cat 1/2 riders. Nobody seems to respect your space, yet everyone but me seems to be comfortable. Obviously I am doing something wrong.
Today, in the 1/2/3 field at PIR, it all clicked. I mean, it CLICKED. I was perfectly comfortable. I was at the front of the field, at the back, in the middle. Last week, in the same field, I was a wreck. Totally sketched. A head case. I surfed the back basically the whole race. This week, none of that. What changed?
First thing was, I started worrying about what the pack was doing 10-15 rows ahead rather than being paranoid about what individuals were doing right around me. Contact is normal in racing. Not something to strive for, but it happens, and it's not a big deal really. My problem was I was anticipating potential contact, rather than letting it happen. Looking around at the riders around me, I would hear and see out of the corner of my eye that someone was coming up around me and I would shy away. This is what caused the pinky crash into the wall. Or I would be riding between two people in a gap and one would move towards me and I would shy away from the movement. This is what caused the puff of dust crash. I shied away right into the other guy, got tangled up and slid down on my ass. Maybe it's a subconscious response to my busted helmet crash (of which I remember nothing) but it is perfectly unhelpful and sometimes downright dangerous.
Today I flowed. I sat up on the hoods, looked up ahead and I flowed. I got up to the front with no problem; even sprinted unsuccessfully for a prime (turns out, trying to come around a pro leadout train is hard) and spent some time off the front. I held position around corners and only got yelled at once for a totally unsatisfactory reason. Things are coming together.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
On Form
Form. This is what racing cyclists chase. It is a concept unique to competition. A recreational cyclist never talks about his "form". He talks about how "in shape" he is, or how he "feels" during a ride; the concept of "form" doesn't exist for someone who doesn't race. "Form" is so much more than a measurement of pure fitness. It encompasses the whole range of competitive skills, including fitness, but more important than that, it refers to the athlete's competitive fire, the certainty that he will be competitive in a race, the urgency he feels to compete.
A bike racer who is not on good form fears the race. He goes into it begrudgingly, as if someone is forcing him. He goes through the motions and rides at the back, fearing the inevitable moment he is dropped. Inevitable because he knows that at some point, he will drop, so he will. He is apathetic. Everyone around him has better fitness. Everyone has been training more hours. Everyone is more talented.
When a bike racer is on good form, nothing can stop him. He takes chances. He goes off the front, not just because it is his style of racing and he's just plugging his calling card, but because he believes he can win with the attack. He enters the sprint looking for gaps to move up, rather than trying to keep out of people's way. Up a steep pitch, if he can't keep pace, he doesn't stop pedaling, but starts calculating, knowing his body intimately, measuring his efforts to recover before the back of the field passes so he is not dropped.
But most importantly, form suggests strength. Raw power, combined with the winning mindset. Where instead of dragging yourself to a training ride, you have to force yourself to rest. You are not panicking that others are training more than you. You are enjoying your rise in strength and have to use your rational mind to check yourself from overexertion.
The last couple weeks at Alpenrose. The Tuesday before on the solo breakaway. The weekend time trial before that. I was getting good results but I didn't really feel good. I didn't feel like I was training appropriately. I wasn't feeling like I was on good form. Yesterday, at the hilly Silverton Road Race, the one race that has consistently kicked my ass, the race I've raced twice and never finished with the pack and last year didn't even finish... I not only finished but I placed in the top 15. Now, normally I don't get too excited at anything out of the top 10, but this race is a different beast from the races I normally contest. The accelerations that would normally kick me off the back; the hills that would gradually grind my legs to cramping, quivering sticks of meat - didn't. Not that day. I sprinted uphill at the finish. The 50-some-odd miles seemed short. If somebody handed me another waterbottle, I could've raced another lap.
On form. I can magically climb. I can magically time trial. And I can still sprint. Time to see what's down the rabbit hole.
A bike racer who is not on good form fears the race. He goes into it begrudgingly, as if someone is forcing him. He goes through the motions and rides at the back, fearing the inevitable moment he is dropped. Inevitable because he knows that at some point, he will drop, so he will. He is apathetic. Everyone around him has better fitness. Everyone has been training more hours. Everyone is more talented.
When a bike racer is on good form, nothing can stop him. He takes chances. He goes off the front, not just because it is his style of racing and he's just plugging his calling card, but because he believes he can win with the attack. He enters the sprint looking for gaps to move up, rather than trying to keep out of people's way. Up a steep pitch, if he can't keep pace, he doesn't stop pedaling, but starts calculating, knowing his body intimately, measuring his efforts to recover before the back of the field passes so he is not dropped.
But most importantly, form suggests strength. Raw power, combined with the winning mindset. Where instead of dragging yourself to a training ride, you have to force yourself to rest. You are not panicking that others are training more than you. You are enjoying your rise in strength and have to use your rational mind to check yourself from overexertion.
The last couple weeks at Alpenrose. The Tuesday before on the solo breakaway. The weekend time trial before that. I was getting good results but I didn't really feel good. I didn't feel like I was training appropriately. I wasn't feeling like I was on good form. Yesterday, at the hilly Silverton Road Race, the one race that has consistently kicked my ass, the race I've raced twice and never finished with the pack and last year didn't even finish... I not only finished but I placed in the top 15. Now, normally I don't get too excited at anything out of the top 10, but this race is a different beast from the races I normally contest. The accelerations that would normally kick me off the back; the hills that would gradually grind my legs to cramping, quivering sticks of meat - didn't. Not that day. I sprinted uphill at the finish. The 50-some-odd miles seemed short. If somebody handed me another waterbottle, I could've raced another lap.
On form. I can magically climb. I can magically time trial. And I can still sprint. Time to see what's down the rabbit hole.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Nobody Else in the Photo
Tuesday PIR was a wet affair with spring thunderstorms lashing the Portland area. It was sunny down in Wilsonville, where I work, but looking up the freeway up north, it was like PIR had it's very own dark cloud over it, kind of like those cartoon scenes where the single character is followed around by his own rain cloud. Still, I wasn't worried because the weather report suggested that the rain was just passing through and it would be out of the area by the time the race started.
Weather.com, you suck.
At PIR, I found Jason and a couple other hearty PV riders willing to brave the rain. Originally Jason and I were planning to do the 1/2/3 race, however, seeing as we had teammates in the 3/4 race and it was raining and cold, we figured it was worth getting off the road 20 minutes earlier and switched our registration to the 3/4 race. I figured I would just attack a few times to keep the pace high and the race interesting; try to win a different way and have some fun without all the stress of absorbing Cat 1/2 hammer blows in the 1/2/3s.
The 3/4 field was tiny. About 20 riders. We go off and almost immediately, I attack around the first corner. I don't expect this attack to succeed. I am not known as an attacking rider and even in the 4's I wasn't the type that goes off the front with any success. My previous big race attack had me going off the front and dangling out there for an hour before getting caught and blown off the back for about an equal amount of time.
So I attack and I can see a chase developing behind. I concentrate on pushing the pedals, holding a pace I can sustain. If I'm caught, I'll just attack again. That's the plan.
I look back around the last corner before the finishing straight and I still have a pretty good gap. The guys in the field are all strung out.
Another lap and the gap hasn't changed. I can see two or three guys gapping the rest of the field.
Another lap and the gap is the same. I dig in and concentrate on looking forward. I'm paranoid that at any moment the pack will engulf me.
Another lap; it appears the chase has been temporarily put on hold. The gap is getting larger.
Another lap and the gap is definitely growing. Good sign. I'm surprised at myself. This is new territory for me.
Another lap and the elastic has officially snapped. The gap explodes. Holy shit I might hold this! Immediately followed up by the thought: Holy shit I still have almost 20 miles to race!
Lap after lap, I collect primes like punching tickets. I use two gears: 53/13 and the 53/14. I can see the bottom of my cleats in the reflection from the water on the road. The gap grows to the point where I can no longer see the pack when rounding the final corner. I figure they've been neutralized by the 1/2/3s by this point.
The laps count down and I keep my pace. 22-23mph in the back stretch. 26-27 in the S-curves and 24-25 in the finish straight. Those are my numbers, lap after lap. My feet are numb and I'm paranoid about crashing in a slick corner.
Finally the bell lap. I debate a finishing salute vs. doing all this work only to get disqualified. Rounding the final corner, then 200m, and I finally sit up. No salute; too cold, too wet. 27 miles, solo, for the win, with nobody else in the photo.
Weather.com, you suck.
At PIR, I found Jason and a couple other hearty PV riders willing to brave the rain. Originally Jason and I were planning to do the 1/2/3 race, however, seeing as we had teammates in the 3/4 race and it was raining and cold, we figured it was worth getting off the road 20 minutes earlier and switched our registration to the 3/4 race. I figured I would just attack a few times to keep the pace high and the race interesting; try to win a different way and have some fun without all the stress of absorbing Cat 1/2 hammer blows in the 1/2/3s.
The 3/4 field was tiny. About 20 riders. We go off and almost immediately, I attack around the first corner. I don't expect this attack to succeed. I am not known as an attacking rider and even in the 4's I wasn't the type that goes off the front with any success. My previous big race attack had me going off the front and dangling out there for an hour before getting caught and blown off the back for about an equal amount of time.
So I attack and I can see a chase developing behind. I concentrate on pushing the pedals, holding a pace I can sustain. If I'm caught, I'll just attack again. That's the plan.
I look back around the last corner before the finishing straight and I still have a pretty good gap. The guys in the field are all strung out.
Another lap and the gap hasn't changed. I can see two or three guys gapping the rest of the field.
Another lap and the gap is the same. I dig in and concentrate on looking forward. I'm paranoid that at any moment the pack will engulf me.
Another lap; it appears the chase has been temporarily put on hold. The gap is getting larger.
Another lap and the gap is definitely growing. Good sign. I'm surprised at myself. This is new territory for me.
Another lap and the elastic has officially snapped. The gap explodes. Holy shit I might hold this! Immediately followed up by the thought: Holy shit I still have almost 20 miles to race!
Lap after lap, I collect primes like punching tickets. I use two gears: 53/13 and the 53/14. I can see the bottom of my cleats in the reflection from the water on the road. The gap grows to the point where I can no longer see the pack when rounding the final corner. I figure they've been neutralized by the 1/2/3s by this point.
The laps count down and I keep my pace. 22-23mph in the back stretch. 26-27 in the S-curves and 24-25 in the finish straight. Those are my numbers, lap after lap. My feet are numb and I'm paranoid about crashing in a slick corner.
Finally the bell lap. I debate a finishing salute vs. doing all this work only to get disqualified. Rounding the final corner, then 200m, and I finally sit up. No salute; too cold, too wet. 27 miles, solo, for the win, with nobody else in the photo.
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