Aggression

The originally planned title for this was something like "Screwing the pooch at Jiminy Peak" but after today I decided on the change. I've been back to being a regular competitor on the New England USCF road circuit for six seasons now, not counting this one. During that time I've gradually and consistently improved my fitness and competitiveness. No wins (except for the Mt A TT), a few podiums, and a bunch of lesser placings are all I've got to show for my efforts. Good thing I'm process-oriented. For anyone who's new or who hasn't been paying attention, I raced a lot from '87 to '95, got hurt doing cx, started going to night school, faded almost completely out of the sport by '98, gained 40 lbs, finished school, and started racing again in 2003.

Most of the off years I still dragged myself down to Wompatuck a few times each summer, so I wasn't totally out of it. 190 became my new "fighting/summer" weight. In 2003, I'd made my way to the bright side of 190, but svelte I was not. Nor was I 45 yet, which meant racing in the 35-44 group. Now I know you could all list examples of 50+ mutants who still kick younger rider's asses, but by and large age groups exist for a reason, and being on the low end of your group is much more pleasant than the other way around. So we have a 43 year old fat guy returning to the sport against the usual suspects of New England master's racing. This is a recipe for survival mode at best, and certainly not the racing style one might reasonably expect from a guy who calls himself "solobreak."

Let us continue by momentarily diverting our attention to demographics. After all, you're probably reading this on Monday morning and are really hungry for some blog fodder, so I may as well ramble a bit. It's no secret that the 45+ category is one of the most populous right now, at least in our area. It was not always this way. When I (and many of my current 45+ comrades) were younger, the Cat 3 fields in New England were huge. We were never combined with the 4s. Races used to routinely close out before race day (and this was with mail-in registration). We had 175 rider fields at Fitchburg. A side-effect of this was that successful breakaways were very rare. The shear size of the fields, and the resulting desire of everyone to stay near the front, led to high speeds. And of course then as probably now, there was a "chase everything" mentality that prevailed. Most races, unless they finished on a big climb, ended in field sprints. But that didn't stop some of us from trying, and occasionally succeeding in a "senseless" breakaway.

Another side effect of this was the start of the 30+ category, which has since mostly faded away. Really it never took hold, but some races had it, and most of the 30-34 guys who were really good scoffed at it and continued to race in the 1/2 Pro field. That left the door open for guys like me, and also generally produced more reasonable field sizes where attacks and breaks stood a better chance of working. My "coach" and mentor, Francois Von Beek, always encouraged (demanded) that I attack. He knew I couldn't sprint. Some saw my racing style as "stupid" because I was a training race hero, and rarely won on the weekends, but I knew better. If I sat in and waited on the sprints, I'd never win. Rarely is better than never last time I checked...

So now you know where the blog title comes from. "Unsuccessful Solo Break" might be more fitting, but on those rare and cherished occasions when things work out, well, I guess you have to be there to know how that feels. Ditto for the heartbreak of losing. I've been there too. Sometimes you get put out of your misery early. Other times you get taken down by the charging field 50 meters from the line, after a brilliant 10k solo. You go from being so close to the win you can taste it, to tasting your blood and peeling the melted lycra out of your blistered and bloodied skin. That's probably another one of those things you have to have been there for in order to appreciate.

As the overweight comeback not-so-kid, in 2003-2004 I was forced to adopt a somewhat more conservative approach to competing. Hanging on for dear life would be an accurate description of some of my first races back. But like I started off saying, I've been slowly and steadily improving. Plus I passed 45 and got to race with a group that was/is mostly still as old or older than me, which can't hurt. On occasion I've even been aggressive too, going up the road, with some minor success. Mostly though, in races when I wasn't expendable for the benefit of a team mate, I've hung back and tried to finish strong. For me, races like Jiminy Peak, Monson, Sunapee, and even Bow, races with hill finishes, but no real mountains to cross, these are the ones where I stand a chance. And sure enough, I've amassed a bunch of top 10s. But who cares about top 10s? In masters racing, the podium is almost always up the road, and I've been too guarded to leave the security of the bunch.

Which gets us to the point of this entry. Jiminy Peak has always been a "good race for me" kind of race. I got my first win there, in the 1991 30+ district championships. I've been top 20ish the past few years, and top 10 last year. So of course, with my still steadily improving (at least I think) fitness, I was looking forward to Saturday's race. The field was pretty stacked, with large, strong teams from Keltic, Bethel, Arc-en-Ciel, OA, Dino's and others, as well as strong individuals and small squads. I had the Cronoman, Timmy, and Billy C out with me for support. All of us have been riding decent. I greenlighted everyone to go in moves if they felt good, and figured that we should be attacking on the last lap if the situation warranted it. It was time to stop sitting on the hill sprints and start getting aggressive.

Alas, as I already said, master's racing is always up the road. AFAIK, Tom Butler (Keltic), Eric Pearce (Bethel) and Dave Kellogg (Arc-en-Ciel) attacked in the first kilometer. Pretty ballsy with 89k to go. It was not horrendously windy, but it wasn't calm either. They built a decent lead, but were still in sight most of the time. The first time up the big climb someone said they had 45 seconds. Keltic was all over the front sitting on moves by OA/Cyclemania, but with 60k to go the lead did not seem too dangerous. Me and the Cronoman crested the big hill in the top 20. We lost Timmy to a bad patch. Billy was put in difficulty but he managed to stay on. I contributed to an OA-Dino's chase for a few kilometers at the bottom of the descent, but I was quickly feeling it and retreated.

The second time up Route 7 was pretty cool. A big echelon formed at the front. I tried to get a second one going but everyone stayed left and eventually we got out of the crosswind when the road became sheltered. The pace was faster, until we got to the main climb, which we went up at a civilized pace. Everyone was watching Dimitri Buben (CCB) and John Funk (Cycle Fitness). We were told the break had 40 seconds. Impressive, as our lap was not that slow, yet they trio had not given much time back. This time me and Crono crested right there with Buben, Funk, the Keltic and Bethel police, etc, at the front. I took it easy on the descent, and back on Route 43 backpeddled while forcing down some gel and fluids. It was chilly and I hadn't been drinking enough. During this time Dimitri and some others slid off the front. Good move. I am not sure exactly how it happened. There were a lot of backmarkers from other fields in the road, and we could see pace cars up there, but I was unsure of the race situation. I was told by someone it was now two groups of three up the road, and others confirmed this.

Hitting Rt 7 I could not see what was going on up ahead. We were pretty slow this time too, and it stayed bunched up. One thing seemed sure, the race was lost. There were six guys up the road, and no pace cars in sight, meaning they were g-o-n-e. This is what I thought. Well fuck it, I may as well attack. There is a block on, and I'm not in the mood to wait on a fifty rider sprint for 7th. I go up the right gutter, and nobody cares enough to come with me. I get a few hundred meters quickly, but then I crest out and realize it's further to the finish than I thought. We had not hit the section of Route 7 with the climbing lane yet. 7 is pretty featureless and I always lose track of where we are. Fuck, this is going to hurt. I can see a pack of riders a few hundred meters more ahead. I do not see a pace car. It looks like more than six too. I figure it's a big group of backmarkers from an earlier field.

It turns out I figured wrong. That was the race! But I was dieing already, and a glance over the shoulder revealed a seriously strung out field racing up from behind. Oddly enough, it was the entire Keltic team setting the pace. I am not sure why this happened, but I can only assume they knew what was going on. Grouppo Dimitri, which was actually four riders, had made contact with the original break, and now the seven of them were right in front of us, ripe for a killing. But I had already emptied my gun. I got swarmed a few hundred meters before the turn onto the final climb at 2k to go. The break got it about 500 meters later.

I finished deep in the field. The race winner, and all the podiums came from the field, not the break. Only Kellogg hung on for a placing, coming home 8th. Of all the days to throw caution to the wind and not sit on the finale, I picked this one. Doh! I think I would have had good legs for the finish too. But what the hell, being aggressive means not being afraid to lose. Which brings us to today. As noted Friday, I entered the 45+ race at Blue Hills. Why the hell not? It's 11 miles from home, starting right next to the cube farm. I've logged hundreds of laps on the course in training. Duano was entered, but that was it from our team. Feeling tired with par-boiled legs, I put on my backpack and rode to the course. Just like riding to work, except with carbon wheels. And on a Sunday.

When I got there I changed into a skinsuit. The race was short, just 70k, so no need for pockets. I had my taped up helmet too, for aero advantage. I explained to Duano that my former cubemate Cindy lived just off the course, and she claimed that she would come out to watch the race for a few laps. Since she doesn't know anything about bike racing, I'd try to be at the front so she could see me. So I might be taking a flyer on the first lap...

Riding over to the course my legs were not horrible. I lined up on the front. We head out of the parking lot, and Doug Shepard (Everactive) immediately lights it up and TT's. I'm on him like a laser. The field is rolling sleepily and we get an instant gap. Score. Suddenly I feel good. We race past Cindy's street and she has not come out to watch. There will be hell to pay, but who cares, I'm off the front, this other guy is working and I'm riding my old stomping grounds training route with two police escorts. And we're flying. We go up the hill and it's just five more 12 k laps to go, woo-hoo.

On lap two Doug is breathing kind of hard, and his pulls are getting shorter. I'm on the new bike, which has no speed sensor, but I know we're going fast and I feel good. My HR is only around 150, probably depressed from yesterday. But I can hold this pace. Maybe someone will bridge. We don't have any Gearworks or Sunapee guy with us, so unless one of them comes up, I can't imagine this working. But right now it's working too well to quit. One of the police motorcycles drops off, obviously heading back to lead the pack. Wow. Then suddenly the wheel van appears behind us. I know what this means -- we have at least a minute gap.

I'm pulling on the downhills to allow Doug to rest, attempting to let him set his pace on the rises. But it's not effective. He's not riding tangents either, he's taking the edge of the road like we're out training. I'm having none of it, using every inch of our lane. We hit the climb and I can tell by his breathing this is not going to work. I feel I need him but if I ride his pace I'm afraid we'll be back in sight by the top. Buh-bye. I finish the lap in 16:37. I am now in solobreak mode. With 50k to go...

Lap three goes ok. I'm not dieing, and I'm riding the same gears as before. Doing some math in my head, I determine anything slower than 17:30 (~39 kph) has no chance of survival. I'm not getting splits from anyone, but some spectators keep telling me "they're not in sight," leading me to believe that they aren't far out of it either. I'm going at a six lap pace. No point in riding myself into oblivion just yet. Someone might bridge and I have to be ready. The third time up the hill I'm suffering a little. I stand in a spot where I had been sitting. The wheel car is still with me. The lap is 17:18, almost a minute slower than lap two, but maybe I have enough cushion. On the flats I feel OK, but with 36k and three more trips up the hill between me and the finish line, I have to gamble and hold the pace at a level that won't crack me. I save a little bit for the hill this time, but still I falter a bit, going all the way to my crossover gear to avoid standing. I can't see anyone behind, but suddenly the police moto comes past from behind, and rides up to speak with my moto before retreating. I am pretty sure I know what this means... Cresting at 17:39, I pass the 2 laps to go sign clicking up through the gears, resuming a high pace down past Houghton's Pond. A glance back reveals the inevitable though - the field is lined out behind; the solobreak party is about to end. I had one gel that I'd bummed from Duano tucked in my shorts (where of course I also put the empty wrapper), so I sat up, ate it, stretched my back, and surrendered.

At least I wasn't cooked. The field wasn't going much faster than I'd been going myself a few minutes before, so sitting in felt pretty easy. This lap was aggressive too, non-stop attacks and counterattacks. I even joined the fun. My legs were a touch crampy on the penultimate climb though, and nothing seemed to be getting away. We took one to go in 17 something. When we hit 138 I was still near the front. Peter Megdal (NEBC) and Mark Thompson (Sunapee) had a small lead, probably 10 seconds. I knew they were strong, and I thought I could bridge. But the move didn't look that promising. I would need a huge lead to hold off the charging field the final time up the climb, and I'd probably cramp. Or so I reasoned. This few seconds of hesitation were all that were needed to kill my dreams of a decent finish once and for all. We started downhill and the field was swarming, but the two leaders put their heads down and disappeared. They must have motored. The field got all bunchy, curb to curb, kind of dicey as we were not moving fast enough to string things out at all. Everyone wants to be near the front, but nobody wanted to be at it. Gearworks finally managed to get Stevens and Bernard up there to try to reel in the break, but it was too little too late. Megdal and Thompson hung on to finish 1-2. Our crazy bunchy field rambled on all the way to the hill, where the officials started honking crazily at the slightest yellow line violation. I tried to squeeze left and right but was mired in the massed bunch where just about everyone was trying to do the same thing. My quads were cramping whenever I stood anyway. It opened up in the final meters where we had the whole road, but I was totally out of it and finished 30th.

I may have had my best form in years this weekend, as I planned. And it was "wasted" on two "stupid" moves. But I'm going to be happy with it. I don't need another 7th place finish. I needed to start racing more aggressively, and I did. Thanks for reading.