Over the Hills and Far away

I am lying around recovering from my ride today in the summer heat. It was a good ride, though.

I rode from my apartment up the trail, over the Rainbow Bridge, and though Folsom. I picked up Green Valley Road and took that all the way through Rescue, then on to Lotus and through Coloma. I climbed Marshall Grade (so hard), rode over to Greenwood and down to Cool. I plunged into the canyon on 49 and climbed back up to Auburn. Then I took Auburn-Folsom back to the trail and home.

All told it was 77 miles with a ton of climbing.  I am tired.

Later.

2000 Sierra Century

My first century is in the books. It actually turned out to be pretty fun, and any apprehension I had was unfounded. I rode really well, and even though I faded a bit at the end, it was still a strong performance.

When I say "first century" I am referring to an organized event. Back in my racing days, we eclipsed 100 miles many times and rode up to 150 miles on several occasions.

I arrived in Plymouth early in the morning and checked in. My stomach was a little upset. Looking at a jagged course profile with 8600 feet of climbing will do that to a guy. Here is the route map from last year:

The highlighted route is the metric that omits the Slug Gulch climb, which is an ascent that strikes fear into many flatlanders.

We rolled out and of course there are a lot of people, but it thins out quickly as the racer guys separate from the riding guys. I am somewhere in the middle between the dudes with shaved legs and the dudes with beards and review mirrors.

The first 20 miles flew by quickly because it was almost all downhill. I rolled into the rest stop in Ione feeling great but I knew it was only fools gold. I topped off my water and grabbed some food because I know shit's about to get real.

We immediately start the climb up toward Volcano and I settled in for what will be roughly two hours of climbing. I spun a low gear to keep my heart rate down. I knew that the Rams Horn Grade after Volcano is no joke.

A few miles into the climb, a group of about 25 guys came roaring up from behind. I recognize one of them as my old neighbor Renzo, who exclaimed "Dude!" when he saw me. I rode with Renzo quite a bit a few years back when I lived in Sacramento, and I also recognized a few other guys from those rides. "Ride with us, man!"

These guys were all Cat 2 and 3 racers, and given the length and difficulty of this ride, I knew I should probably ride alone. But I am also a little competitive, so I said yes.

The first time I rode with Renzo and his friends they dropped me after only six miles. I improved some over time, but the flat roads around the airport and the Sacramento River made it tough. I am at my best when the roads go up and down.

The pace was high and a little uncomfortable, but not too bad. We clicked off five miles, then 10. I was sitting in about 10th wheel, and I took a peek behind me to see only a couple guys; our pack had been cut in half.

As we approached Volcano I was looking forward to the break. However, nobody slowed down. It was on. We blew through the rest stop and hit Rams Horn Grade full blast. I was sitting on Renzo's wheel when a gap started forming in front of him. I pulled around and said, "Let's go!" He tried to stay with me but couldn't. I closed the gap and grabbed a wheel. I looked back to see Renzo cracking.

We hit a false flat and regrouped a bit. Everyone sat up for a few seconds and took a drink. As racers we recognize these unspoken truces but know they are very temporary. There was one more piece of the steep climb remaining. Eight of us remained from the original group, and there would definitely be a race to the top.

We hit the last stretch, and the tempo was insane. The angel on my shoulder said, "You probably shouldn't be going this fast." The devil inside said, "Kill them all!"

One guy started to pull away and I decided if I don't finish this ride, then I'll just go out fighting. I jumped around a couple guys and went after numero uno. I eventually reeled him in and two guys were able to stay on my wheel. We stayed in this order until we rolled over the top.

As we crested the climb the four of us exchanged high fives. I felt pretty good about making the selection with a group of elite racers. There were over 20 guys behind us who couldn't.

We took it easy on the descent into Fiddletown. We had proven our point and it was time to let the group reassemble. Renzo eventually caught up to me. "You killed it, man!"

I just shrugged my shoulders. "Why are you not racing?" he asked.

"Because sometimes the roads are flat."

We got a good laugh out of that.

As we approached Fiddletown, I told Renzo I was going to take advantage of the rest stop. We said our goodbyes and they rolled on.

I fueled up and quickly got back on the bike before I cooled down. I decided to slow down a bit and focus on the last big climb.

After Fiddletown there was a small climb and some rolling flats as I neared Slug Gulch. The riders had thinned out and for the first time I was completely alone on the road. I may have been better off riding at a higher pace in the pack, but I will never know. Either way, those flat miles took forever.

Slug Gulch was tough. I had never seen people walk up a paved road, but there were many riders pushing their bikes. The maximum grade was 14%. I have encountered steeper, but not after 80 miles of riding.

I was determined to ride the whole thing, and I did, but I didn't set any speed records. A couple times I had to resort to zig-zagging across the road just to get my heart rate under control.

After I crested the top I thought it would be smooth sailing to the finish, but topo maps can be deceiving. That last 20 miles of "downhill" had lots of little leg-breaking climbs.

Thankfully a guy came by and asked if I wanted to ride with him. We rode the rest of the way together and that helped a lot from a drafting perspective and psychologically. It's just easier to suffer with another rider.

We rolled into Plymouth and I was glad to be done. Even for a guy in decent shape, 103 miles is a lot. Right now I can say that I don't have any desire to do this again, but I probably said that last time I rode 100 miles.

Later.

Yeah, I Wanna Go

Today I woke up tired, stiff and famished after my long ride in the foothills. I went to Adalberto's, a Mexican place that I frequent, and bought TWO huge breakfast burritos. I ate them on the couch while watching the Giro d'Italia coverage on TV. It was way too much food, and I was quite full.

At about 8 a.m. I went out to do a short recovery ride on my mountain bike to loosen up. I only wanted to go for an easy spin, but things never go as planned on the WeeFun Trail.

I rode a mellow 15 mile-per-hour tempo up to Goethe Park, my turnaround point. It was warm, the air smelled fresh and clean, and there were lots of animals out. It was quite peaceful.

Shortly after turning around, two guys on road bikes passed me, and I decided to jump on the back and ride with them for a while. People draft each other on the bike trail all the time, and it's typically no big deal. Not today.

It really pissed off one of the guys. There is a small percentage of riders who only ride road bikes and have a strong distaste for mountain bikers. Had I been on my road bike, like yesterday, he probably would have welcomed me. But that was yesterday.

He said, "You want to go? Huh? You wanna go? Then let's go!"

He had a strong New York accent with the matching stereotypical attitude. He sprinted away with his buddy right on his wheel. Even though I was very tired from the day before, and so full from breakfast that I could feel the food right below my throat, I gave chase. This guy was being an ass, so I just HAD to chase them.

I caught back up to them without too much struggle, and the guy kept looking back to see if I had given up yet. Each time he saw that I hadn't cracked, he increased the speed. Soon we were doing 27 miles per hour. After about a mile his buddy couldn't take it anymore, and a gap started to form. I went around him and bridged back up to the jerk in front. He looked back, and I could see that he was surprised to see me and not his buddy on his wheel.

He increased the speed a little more, and after a minute or so looked back again. I looked him right in the eye and shook my head "no" as if to say, "Is that all you got?"

At this point he was "turning the cranks in anger," as Phil Liggett would say. I looked down to see that we were doing 31 miles per hour. Flying. My knobby tires buzzed like a hive of angry bees.

Not quite obeying the 15 mile per hour speed limit, we performed the giant slalom through bike trail traffic, scaring wildlife and sending joggers scurrying to the shoulder. This was stupid behavior, I know, but I wanted to kick this guy's ass.

My legs were really burning and it felt like I was going to puke very soon. I held on for about five minutes longer and then completely cracked. As soon as I fell back he slowed down, too, so I know he was right at his limit.

I held on to his wheel for almost five miles, though, so I felt like I made my point. I was hoping to see him up ahead waiting for his slow friend, but somehow I never saw either of them again. I wanted to tell him that I would have torn his fucking legs off on my road bike, but I doubt I would have said anything. Anyway, he probably knew the likely outcome of a battle on level ground.

I rolled up to my door with 21 miles, but fell far short of the easy recovery miles I really needed. Maybe tomorrow.

Later.

Blast From the Past

Back in our mountain bike racing heyday in the '80s, we also spent a lot of time training on road bikes as well. The quiet roads in the foothills were our playground, and we knew them all. For the most part we stayed in the triangle defined by our homes in Citrus Heights, Forresthill to the northeast and Placerville to the east. However, we often ventured far beyond those imaginary boundaries in search of tough climbs and sweet descents.

These days I rarely use those roads. The times have changed and nothing is as quiet or safe as it used to be. Traffic has increased and it feels like drivers are more aggressive and less patient. Still, every once in a while I get the urge to experience that kind of riding.

Today I rode from my apartment in Fair Oaks up Green Valley Road, climbed over Lotus Grade and rode through Coloma on Highway 49. As I looked up to the east, there it was in the distance: Marshall Grade. I gazed up at the hillside to see a road cut jutting up at a hideous angle as it shot toward the sky. Pain was on the horizon. From my vantage point on the highway, the grade looked pretty damn steep—worse than I remembered. I turned onto Marshall Road and hit the base of the climb, only to find myself having to shift into my 39x23 immediately. That is the gear I stayed in for the entire 2.5 miles.

Much like songs can trigger memories, rides often do the same. As I climbed, my mind flashed back to a ride I did with Steve, probably in 1987 or so, when we rode up Marshall Grade. We hit the climb and started to ramp up the pace. We shifted up a gear. Then another. And another. And another. Pretty soon we were hammering away in a 42x17 gear, flying uphill like madmen. When we reached the top, we high-fived and talked excitedly about how few mortals could have climbed with us. And it was probably true; that was a pro-level performance, if for only 2.5 miles.

Today as I struggled, I couldn't believe we were able to get into a 42x17 anywhere on the climb. It simply didn't seem possible. Whenever I think I'm getting fit, I'll go do that climb for a reality check. Right now I am not terribly fit. I did catch a guy towards the top who was suffering more than I, so that made me feel a little better. Schadenfreude is definitely part of cycling psychology toolbox.

After the climb I turned onto Greenwood Road, which is one of my favorites. I then took Highway 193 to Cool, then took Highway 49 through the canyon. After riding through Auburn I headed downhill on Auburn-Folsom Road all the way home.

I ended up with 78 miles, which is my longest ride in a couple years. It was pretty fun except for the broken spoke with 15 miles left. This is the fourth spoke I have broken in my rear wheel recently, and at this point I need to pony up for a new rear wheel. Riding home with a bent rim every few weeks is getting old.

Later.

Race Report: 2000 Land Park Criterium

I can sum up today like this: rode in circles, stayed alive, ultimately had fun.

Land Park is the NASCAR of local criteriums, the only difference being we turn right. The course is corner-free and nearly round, so you could conceivable race it without any brakes. Lacking those turns, the speeds are high and breakaways are rare. Basically you race in a tight pack for a while and sprint at the end while trying to avoid the inevitable crash.

I had some extra motivation today because a few friends showed up—Ed, Justin and his nephew. They were going to watch me race and ride afterwards. It's always fun to race for the fans. No autographs until after the race, please.

The race went according to script. We raced as a clump of riders for the most part, and only a few times did someone go hard enough to string it out a bit. Ultimately those efforts end when the instigator tires out and the guys on the front are swamped by fresh riders coming up from the sides. When this happens you can quickly find yourself going from top-three to the back of the pack. Because you are stuck in the middle there isn't a lot you can do about it. Once you get to the back, then you can escape to the outside and repeat the process.

On the final two laps the speed ramped up along with stupidity. There was a lot of elbowing and fighting for position. On the back straight right before we hit the line for the bell lap, somebody went down. I didn't see it, but I certainly heard it: squealing brakes, profanities, metal scraping and the thud of bodies hitting asphalt.

By the time the dominoes reached me towards the back, I had enough time to dive to the inside toward daylight. The guy in front of me went down hard. I hit the rear brakes and went into a (somewhat) controlled slide. When I saw my options were hitting a curb, spectators, a tree or the body sliding in front of me, the choice was easy. I let off the brakes and straightened out right before I hit the guy. Without thinking about it I attempted to bunnyhop him. I managed to lift my front wheel enough to clear his legs but my rear wheel clipped him. Somehow I stayed upright and rode it out.

I would say a dozen to 15 people hit the pavement. The survivors like me tried to wind it back up and salvage the race, but the leaders were long gone. This is why we try so hard to stay on the sharp end of the pack. Crashes rarely affect the guys at the very front.

I felt like I couldn't get going, and looked down to see my rear wheel wobbling around and hitting the brakes due to a broken spoke. I flipped open my rear brakes and slowly spun out the last lap. Guys with bloody knees and elbows and tattered clothing were passing me, but I didn't care. The difference between 25th and 26th doesn't matter to me.

I met up with the guys in the finishing area and chatted for a bit. They asked if I wanted to ride with them. After 16 miles of high intensity insanity, my legs were burning a bit. Still, I was frustrated and thought a short spin might be fun.

I changed into street clothes and did my best to true my rear wheel, and I managed to get it pretty straight. I rolled away with my friends who were all on mountain bikes expecting a short spin around town.

Nineteen miles later we arrived back at our cars after riding all over the city on roads, bike trails and even some singletrack. Somewhere in the middle we had a burger. It was by far the best part of the day.

Races like today make me question my sanity. I enjoy competing, and it's definitely a rush bumping elbows at 30 miles per hour, but the risk is high. I can't remember the last time I raced a crit and there wasn't a crash. Plus, I suck at them. I can climb, descend and handle a bike pretty well. Going around in flat circles just isn't my forte. Maybe that's why I keep coming back. I guess I want to conquer this stupid form of racing.

Later.