Batten Killed

Yes, the correct spelling, at least according to the signs on the bridges, is the two-word Batten Kill, not Battenkill. My 2006 season, as well as my 45+ road career, began on Saturday at the Batten Kill-Roubaix road race in the insanely picturesque Washington County, New York. As a veteran of Pemi-Valley, Westfield, Buckfield, Stow, Killington, Bow, and of course Putney, when I tell you that this is the the most classic of the northeast classics, you should be shocked. All I can say is Dieter and company have put together the most incredible 87 kilometer bike racing test I have ever ridden.

Not that it went so well for me. Me and the Cronoman headed out on Friday so that we could check out the course. We were both BKR virgins, as were most of the competitors, with this being only the second annual and all. Two-lane all the way, with my not so Nigel Mansellish chauffeur braking through the apexes (apexi?) and lugging the overloaded Mazda up the cols at 1500 rpm, the three hour drive took closer to four. This left no time for lunch at The Common Ground in the People's Republic of Brattleboro, but at least the unique blend of beautiful scenery and rural poverty known as Vermont passed by the windows slowly, allowing me to take it all in. We checked in to our room at the Best Western in Bennington (queue the Brokeback Velo Club jokes) and headed over the border to Salem, New York via a deserted back road along the Batten Kill River that would be great for cycling.

Of course, neither of us had the forethought to actually find and print a map of the course, so we were kind of winging it. Luckily, shortly after entering Salem, we saw some directions painted on the road, and allez we go. Within a mile we were driving over the Eagleville covered bridge. The entire course was well marked, except for one spot in the center of Greenwich where we took a detour. A mix of beautiful, lightly traveled county roads through working farmlands, some flat along the serpentine Batten Kill, and others quite undulating, combined with six sections of "pave" made up the course. Well, not cobblestone pave, we are talking dirt roads. Not just the token mile or two you sometimes see in races either. There were a total of 25-35 kilometers without pavement. Most sectors were in good shape, although the longest two had recently been graded and thus had a lot of loose stones, with just a double-track of tire stripes offering decent rideability. Did I mention that the dirt roads were the hilliest parts of the course? By this I mean over 10% grades, both up and down? These were not straight shots either, we had some turns to contend with. And by the way, there were thundershowers Friday night, but I admit the resulting mud was minimal and could have been much worse.

Saturday morning dawned damp and overcast, but with reasonably warm temps for this time of year. We got there just in time, as shortly after we picked up our numbers, race registration got a bit overwhelmed and the start times were pushed back by twenty minutes or so. By the time we got underway the clouds had lifted and the mercury was pushing 65. The 45+ field had 75 riders pre-registered, but it appeared that only 60 or so showed up. This included several unattached newbies who, to be frank, had no business in this group. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for them, they weren't in with us for long. We hit the first dirt after only 5k, a mild ascent with a subsequent screaming downhill, and by the time we rolled back past the start (this was sort of a promenade loop) we were down to 40-45 riders. This did not last long either...

The first climb was paved. My Polar data shows it as 1.2k at 7%. To those accustomed to reading the Tour stage profiles, this may not sound like much, but I hit 176 bpm, which is about 3 beats over my max, just staying in the top 25, which was about 5 less than the number of riders who regrouped on the incredibly short descent that followed. By the way, in the middle of this descent, we made a 90 degree turn on to a one lane dirt road. Taking all of two and a half minutes, during which time my heart rate barely came out of the stratosphere, the downhill portion led to a 600 meter long dirt wall of 10%. Your hero was not quite ready for this one, and contact with the dwindling groupetto was lost, just 17k into the race.

Not to fear, Juniper Swamp Road descended for about 8k, even turning back to pavement right where we picked up the course on our pre-drive the day prior. Gathering a few companions along the way, I flew down the muddy path in a tuck at 60 kph, buzzing through the property of a poor farmer whose cattle didn't even have a field to shit in, and instead stood on the swampy roadside across from the farmer's tin-roofed home eating baled hay. Yikes. The group was not that far ahead, and we saw them on the rare straight portions of the descent. When we went over the covered bridge, which quickly led to a long, straight, flat county road into the wind, we were only 10 seconds or so back, and there were about 13 of us chasing a group of only 20. More correctly, there were about four of us towing nine parasites who would not work, even though we were practically there. So instead of a quick downhill chase and regroup, we eventually got about 15k of ragged death rotation into the wind. We did get back on though, but it was way more work than it should have been, and we only got there about a kilometer before the next obstacle, a 3 kilometer paved road grade of a thankfully modest 4%.

Surviving this, the fun began. For me, it also ended quickly. The killer efforts earlier, combined with too much output during the chase, had left me perilously low on reserve strength. Adding stupidity to insult and injury, I also spent what should have been valuable (yet brief) recovery time fumbling with a velcro strap that I had used to secure my only bottle of plain water to the seat tube. This was a good idea, as nothing ruins a race like losing your water on the first giant bump. Sadly, I made it a little too secure, and with my long fingered BMX gloves I couldn't get the damn bottle out, and yo-yo'd off the back while struggling with it.

Finally, the velcro gods relented and I was able to rinse the Gatorade and Gu (this could easily turn into a rant on how scumbag riders who litter the course with their emptied Gu packets are no better than smokers who toss butts out the window, but since I am way over length now, I will let that go for the moment, but if you can't get your gel pack back in your pockets and insist on tossing them onto the ground because you're too much of a poseur-pro to take the time to pack them out, I hope you starve, crash, and bleed to near death, only to be ripped to pieces by coyotes who start at your nuts and then eat your tongue just so they don't have to listen to your pathetic sopro poser whining as they devour the rest of your skinny, rotting, road-rashed carcass. Even this is too good for you, but regardless, I hope that nothing good ever happens to you again, because you are a piece of shit... ok, back to our story) out of my mouth with fresh water just in time for the turn toward Meeting House road. Meeting House is the longest dirt section on the course. This road and Becker Road, which followed after a very brief section of pavement, totaled roughly 10k and contained seven nasty hills of 30-70 meters each in elevation gain. But for me, the end came not on the dirt, but on the killer climb leading to it. I just popped, falling too far off the pace and losing close to a minute in less than a kilometer.

Of course I kept going (was there really a choice?). At least I could pick my line on the dirt. The descents were a blast, when you weren't watching your life flash before your eyes after being nearly knocked over by a huge crosswind gust while bouncing along at 50 kph. Gel packets were not the only litter on the course, there were several other spent riders wobbling along with me too. Toward the end of the dirt (more like stone/gravel) Becker, I saw the wheel van stopped in the road. As I got closer, the yellow-clad flat victim became recognizable as none other the the Cronoman himself. Damn. Forced to change his own wheel, he did not see me coming, and roared off while I was just 30 meters behind. With a few more uphill kilometers to go, I conserved what little energy I had left and continued at my own pace. This was pretty much the story of the rest of my day. The 80 kph descent from the Willard Mountain ski area (which still had patches of snow on it) road was a blast, and then there were about 20k of flat road before the final nasty 4k/4% sticky dirt road climb that led to the classic paved downhill run into town for the finish. I struggled across the line 20 minutes down on the winner, credited with 35th place, behind the half dozen or so who glombed on to the overtaking packs of other age groups. The Cronoman got 26th, pretty damn good considering he flatted.

No, this was not the result I had hoped for, especially considering I have been climbing well, and that my competition was a bunch of old men. Still, this was an epic race. Without any race mileage whatsoever this year, my body just wasn't ready to produce the repeated max efforts that were needed to hang in this severe of a contest. The effort was race quality though, even the end, but especially the beginning. I know this will be a big help in the weeks to come. Next year... Thanks for reading.