Spacing Out

The purchase of the Jones created a situation where there was one more bike in the garage than hooks to hang them on. A huge problem, I know. I sold the Casseroll and the world is back in sync again.

I had actually been trying to sell the Salsa since last August, long before purchasing the Jones even entered my mind.

I bought the Casseroll new in 2009 as a single speed on clearance for $735. I unloaded some of the parts on eBay for about $250 and felt pretty good about it.

The only original parts left when I sold the bike were the frame, fork and brakes. It was built with mostly Dura Ace 9-speed parts originating in the last century. I sold it for $550. It was a good bike, but I saw an opportunity to unload a very old parts set and clear some needed space. The current gravel bike also made it redundant.

Later.

Double Tap

I like to replace my bike parts every 20 years or so, whether they need it or not. I am weird like that. The parts in question are the shifters on my gravel bike.

I bought these Dura Ace 7700 STI shifters way back in 1998. They have been used on countless bikes over the years, and they have seen a lot of racing.

Frames came and went.

As did styles of racing.

And they saw use long after I stopped racing.

These are only a few examples of the bikes they have adorned. On each bike they dutifully performed their shifting and braking duties without complaint.

But it was time to move on, and time to move into the 21st Century. I looked around and read about what was available out there. All my mountain bikes at this point are utilizing a single ring in front, so I thought I should go that route. In my opinion, Shimano just isn't there yet on the road side. Ultimately I decided to buy my first Sram drivetrain EVER.

I decided on an 11-42 cassette and a 44-tooth chainring. I typically used a 38/48 chainring combo on my cross bikes, so I wouldn't lose much on the high end. On the low end, I would make great gains with the massive 42-tooth cog.

My current gravel frame uses mountain bike spacing (135mm) in the rear. Paired with a road crankset, the cassette is spaced 2.5mm outboard in relation to the chainrings. For this reason I used the outer position for the Race Face narrow-wide ring, and the chainline is spot on.

Setup was pretty straightforward. The only hiccup I encountered was my first chain being too short. I ordered a 120-link chain and it was perfect.

I really like the clean look without a front derailleur.

After over 20 years of shifting with STI, I must say it was frustrating to adapt to Double Tap. At one point I said aloud, "This is #%&@ing stupid." As that first ride progressed, it became easier, and the cussing subsided, but by no means did shifting become second nature.

On the pro side, braking has improved significantly. I think the Sram levers have a slightly higher cable pull ratio, so the brakes felt less mushy and I didn't have to run the pads so close to the rotor. I also liked how much more solid the lever blade feels because it isn't also a shifting mechanism like with Shimano STI.

For the cons, I would say so far using one lever for both shifts is not great. However, I know this is simply because I am not used to it. Millions of cyclists, including top professionals, are successfully using the system without issue.

I worried that the wide range of the cassette might not lend itself to road riding, but I noticed no difference. In reality I simply added two bigger cogs (which I have yet to use) to the nine speeds I was used to for all these years.

Overall I think this will be a fine drivetrain choice. Will it last for 20 years? Doubtful. When I purchased the Dura Ace so many years ago, it was top of the line. This new equipment is pretty far down the Sram food chain. Anyway, time will tell. Either way, it probably outlasts my aging body.

Later.

Weekend

The weather wasn't very cooperative this weekend, but I managed to get in a 50-mile ride on the bike trail on Saturday. Sometimes I like to get off the road and not have to worry about cars, the idiots who drive cars, potholes, dead animals, thorns, broken glass, or the idiots who break glass. On the bike trail you can just spin your legs and shut down your brain for a while.

My intention was to take it slow and easy, but that never seems to happen. I had only been on the trail for a little over three miles when a guy rode up beside me. Although it was overcast and cool, he was in shorts and a sleeveless jersey to show off his guns. No helmet on his shaved dome, because he's obviously too cool for that. He has the $6,000 bike, $500 shoes, fake orange tan, and other than his eyebrows, there isn't a single hair visible on his entire body. (Yeah, he even shaved his armpits.) He looked like a creepy alien dipped in Tang. Motioning towards my bike, he said, "What is that? Road bike? Cyclocross? Touring bike?"

"Road bike, mostly," I replied.

"The tires are freakin' HUGE," he said. "Must be slow."

I shrugged. Like I care what some androgynous dick on a carbon bike thinks.

I let him ride away, though he kept looking back—the way they always do—hoping for a race. I wasn't warmed up, and I wasn't in the mood.

About five miles later I had warmed up. Cruising along at a nice tempo, I passed some people; a few people passed me. Everyone was friendly and saying hello. Nobody was being competitive. Just a nice, quiet Saturday ride.

I came around a corner and I could see E.T. up ahead pedaling in squares, orange knees jutting out. Money might have bought the fancy bike and clothes, but it didn't buy that ugly pedal stroke. No, that was pure natural talent right there.

I rode my own tempo and closed the gap in a little under a mile. He looked surprised to see me as I passed, and immediately jumped on my wheel, as I knew he would.

I like to toy with these guys, especially the ones who make assumptions about my "slow" bike. I let him sit back there for a while as I rode at a comfortable pace. After a few minutes, I slowed noticeably. This makes the rider behind you think you're tiring.

I was not.

He came around and I slipped onto his wheel. Trying to drop me, he put the hammer down, peeking beneath his arm every once in a while to see if I was still there. After a couple minutes I let a little gap form to let him think it was working. As soon as he noticed, he accelerated again. I easily got back on his wheel and let him make his run. Fish on.

I think the most interesting aspect of sports is the psychology. Many times I have been on the winning or losing side of these mind games in real races. Unfortunately, only one guy wins a race, so you spend a lot of time learning lessons from the losses.

Even if you aren't racing, it's always fun to battle wits with someone to see if you can outfox them. Feigning weakness is one the oldest tricks in the bike racing book, but this guy had fallen for it.

He rode all-out for about two miles, which was actually pretty impressive, but sitting in his draft was relatively easy. When he completely detonated, I rode away from him without much effort on my fat-tired, slow bike.

Right at my turnaround point, I saw my friend Curtis riding in the opposite direction. I turned around and caught up. We haven't talked much since I quit my road racing team, so it was nice to ride with him for a while and catch up. After 11 miles, he turned back for home, and I was alone again.

About nine miles from my truck, the weather looked threatening. It started raining about three minutes after I took this picture:

It was a light rain, so it wasn't a big deal. I got back to the truck a little damp, but it was a nice, relaxing ride. Just what I needed after a long week.

Later.

Race Report: 2001 Lighthouse Criterium

When I woke up this morning, my legs felt pretty heavy and sore from racing in Land Park yesterday. Had my mom not planned to come see me race, her first time ever, I might have bailed. I crawled out of bed and took a hot shower. After giving my legs a good rubdown, they started feeling better. At the race I warmed up on the trainer for a full 40 minutes—the longest I have ever warmed up. I had a serious sweat going, and that seemed to help loosen me up quite well.

I met a guy from the Bay Area who had parked right next to me. He asked me about the race course, we got to talking, and we ended up hanging out until the start. His name was Jay, but I would only learn this after the race. He works at the Lawrence Livermore Lab.

Because they were running a little behind schedule, the officials didn't allow us a warm-up lap. There was much grumbling from the pack. Before anyone was really ready, the ref blew the whistle and we were off. Immediately the pack strung out in a single file line. The pace was incredibly fast in the beginning, but mellowed out after a few laps.

I rode about mid-pack for the first half of the race. I ended up drifting back little by little and found myself at the back for a couple laps getting sucked along on the nice, long straightaways. After a little recovery time I made an effort up the outside of the hill and suddenly found myself at the head of the pack. I tried to rotate out after a hard pull at the front, and then again a little later, but nobody would come around. Out of anger I put the hammer down and strung out the field, but made no gaps. I must admit it was cool to look back and see the entire pack riding single file in my wake. I rode almost a whole 1.4 mile lap on the front and felt pretty good. I spent the next three laps in the third or fourth position, resting a bit but keeping an eye out for a breakaway.

After my effort at the front, I drifted back in the pack where I saw the lab guy. I said, "What are you doing?" in an Indian accent, like the guy in the Budweiser commercial, and everyone around us was laughing.

On the final lap, going down the first hill, some joker tried to pass on the inside in the gutter. He slid out and crashed hard right in front of me going about 32 miles per hour. I braked hard, swerved and avoided the crash. Nobody else went down, but the field split right in front of me. There was a big gap very quickly. I took off in pursuit and lab guy came around me. I said, "Go Lawrence Livermore Lab guy!" I jumped on his wheel, but unfortunately he petered out pretty quickly. I said, "I'm coming around, let's go!" I put in a blistering effort which actually started dropping lab guy. "Stay with me, stay with me," I said, and he caught back on. I wound it up to 30 miles per hour and managed to get back on the lead group with about 20 seconds of intense effort. I sat in through the three quick S-turns and tried to catch my runaway breath. Then I purposely downshifted to a low gear and really spun it out up the last hill. I shot by about five guys who were in too big a gear. Then after the last turn I shifted down and wound it back up. I couldn't catch onto a wheel so I just sprinted for the finish, passing two more guys and almost nipping a third at the line. It was cool. I made a quick count of nine guys in front of me.

After the race, during the warm-down lap, lab guy introduced himself as Jay. He apologized for not introducing himself earlier because it would have been much easier for me to say, "Go Jay." We got a good laugh out of that.

After a race I like to interact with the fans. OK, it's my mom.

I ended up in 10th place, a decent finish for me in a criterium.

Later.

Race Report: 2001 Land Park Criterium

Today's race ended pretty much like every Land Park Criterium does—with a huge crash. There is a reason we call it "Crash Park."

The race takes place in Sacramento's Land Park on a circuit that really doesn't have any corners to speak of. Because of its circular nature, speeds are very high and the pack is a crammed together. It's really tough for anyone to go fast enough to string out the pack. Most of the time my computer registered 28-30 miles per hour, and this speed is achieved with three or four guys within inches or even at times bumping you.

I drifted from the front of the pack to the back a number of times throughout the race, and even took a few short pulls on the very front. With three laps to go the speed picked up even more and we did finally see some real racing. I moved up to the top third and was feeling pretty good about making a move.

Four guys split off the front with two laps to go and the rest of us were trying to bridge up. On the back side of the course there was a touch of wheels in front of me and a couple guys went down. Everyone scattered, and another racer went down and slid across the road in front of me. I hit the rear brakes and slid sideways to miss him. It was a nice mountain bike move that kept me upright, but I heard the telltale ping of spokes breaking. My rear wheel was toast. Second year in a row.

As I was pulling to the outside of the road the crash continued behind me and I turned just in time to see a guy hit a palm tree. I will never forget the sound of his torso hitting the trunk. It sounded not unlike Stallone punching a side of beef in the first Rocky film.

I continued "racing" with my badly bent rear wheel, but with the rim rubbing my brakes I couldn't do much. When I came around to the crash site on the last lap, the rider who hit the tree was still down but appeared to be conscious and alert.

I limped in to take 38th out of 45.

After barely escaping yet another criterium crash, I have to ask myself if it's worth it. The race format just isn't that fun, and it is by far the type of racing I am weakest at.

At least tomorrow's Lighthouse Criterium has a hill and lots of cornering. Hopefully I will perform a bit better there.

Later.

Race Report: 2001 Mount San Bruno Hillclimb

Today's race was one of those last-minute-decision events that happen from time to time. Since I decided not to go out and party for New Year's Eve, I started to look around for something to do the next day. What better way to start off the new year than with a race?

I got up at the crack of dawn and made the drive down to Brisbane, which took over two hours. I was already questioning the sanity of driving 110 miles to race a mere 3.5 miles.

I registered, dressed and went out to warm up. I hadn't raced a hillclimb in a while, but I remembered enough to warm up thoroughly. For a race that's going to last around 20 minutes, you don't really have to leave much in the tank. You want to be revved up and ready to hit it hard.

We lined up and I took a spot near the back. It wasn't necessary to elbow my way to the front; things would sort themselves out quickly.

The 3.5 mile course averages a 6% gradient with a short break in the middle and the steepest grade at the top.

We took off and within a couple hundred yards I was solidly mid-pack. A few guys got together and we paced up the climb at a moderate clip. I was actually pretty comfortable.

When we hit the halfway point with the slight downhill, the guys I was with started coasting. My strategy was a bit different. I sped up.

I hit the little downhill hard and then never really let up. I picked off people pretty consistently the rest of the way and not a single rider passed me.

Towards the top I did struggle a bit and had to shift down a cog as the grade steepened.

I ended up 8th out of 23 in my class and was pretty happy with that. Not a bad way to start off the racing season.

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.

Race Report: 1998 Land Park Criterium

There isn't a whole lot to tell when reporting on this crit. It's been 10 years since I have raced in Land Park, but nothing has changed. You ride around in circles, avoid the inevitable crash, and sprint.

Today went true to form. Even though I have been doing more riding with road racer friends, I struggled a bit with the high pace and spent much of the race towards the back. In the last few laps, everyone was trying to move up and of course there was a touch of wheels. A few guys went down and I managed to avoid the pileup.

On the bell lap I was actually in a good position near the front, but again the pace was too high. I faded by the end of the lap. I took 12th in the sprint out of 37 riders.

Not great, not terrible. Top third is pretty good for me I guess.

Later.

Race Report: 1998 Lighthouse Criterium

The Lighthouse course is about the best a mountain biker can hope for in a criterium. It has a small climb, a fun little downhill and many turns.

I did my best to stay near the front most of the race, but there are always other guys trying to do the same. On the last lap the jostling and jockeying and elbowing was pretty intense, and I was mid-pack hitting the climb. I picked up a few places on the hill and sprinted for the line.

I don't know my exact placing. They only published the top seven.

I figure my finish was somewhere around 10th to 12th, another average result on the road bike.

Later.

Thirty

I am turning 30 in a few days. I couldn't be more excited about it.

The occasion is not altogether unexpected. Many people do actually reach this momentous milestone of age and wisdom. If you need any sage advice, I am your guy. Soon.

Today, however, I am still in my twenties and possibly still a little bit young and reckless. At least, my legs may tell you that as I sit here suffering from fatigue, soreness and cramps.

I have been working full time now for about 10 months. It's been fine, I guess. The stable pay and benefits are nice, and the promise of a pension someday is good. The idea of doing this for 25 more years is a bit daunting if not depressing, though.

The transition from slacker student with a cycling habit to industrious worker has been at times very easy and also extremely difficult. It's been almost a year and I haven't missed a single day of work. Yet during each of those days I probably think of faking sick and leaving for a ride 10 times.

All of these things were swirling around in my head this morning when I woke up. The only logical thing to do (according to my pre-wisdom brain) was go on an ill-advised ride in the hills and heat to prove to myself I still had some life left in these aging legs.

I rode from my apartment in Sacramento up the bike trail to Folsom, into the foothills past El Dorado Hills and Rescue, through Lotus and Cool, and into the canyon. I climbed up to Auburn, rode down the long, gradual descent back into Folsom, and spun back up the bike trail to my apartment. I ended up with 93 miles, a mild heat stroke and a tiny bit more wisdom.

The reality is I am still very much a cyclist, but it's now my side job. There was a time when these two things were reversed, and I rode more hours than I worked. Ah, to be young and fit and fast. Those were good times. My brain still holds tightly to the memories of the young guy who could easily ride 100 miles and still have more left in the tank. I really liked that guy.

It is the 12th of July and today's journey was only my second ride of the month. It's been very hot, and I have been lazy after work. To think I could go out and ride nearly 100 miles in the heat with my current level of fitness was foolish. You might say unwise. Maybe in a few days I will think differently. You know, when that wisdom kicks in.

On the other hand, perhaps testing yourself periodically leads to insight and knowledge. Even though the "thirty" number I am obsessing over is merely a human construct based on the way we perceive time, the ability to measure oneself at these milestones has merit.

Though I struggled today, I proved to myself once again that I still truly love riding a bicycle. And that struggle taught me so much more than resting could have. After a trying week at work, spending a long Saturday in the hills was the cleansing journey I needed.

I have to find a balance between career and private life. Right now the scale is tipping perilously toward the work side. I think piling on some riding weight will help even things out and ultimately assist me in finding a healthy equilibrium.

As I read back what I have just written, I see little bits of wisdom. I can't help but wonder if I turned 30 today.

Later.

Race Report: 1988 Chico Stage Race

My very first road race occurred in the 1988 racing season. My friend Don was making his annual pilgrimage to the Chico Stage Race and convinced me to go with him. Although I had only been riding with him for a matter of months, and I had only just built my new road bike, I decided to go for it.

Saturday came and the weather was horrible—windy, rainy and cold. I didn't want to race in those conditions, but when Don called to see if I was ready to go, he excitedly told me how awesome it was going to be. And like an idiot I believed him. He rolled up in his shitty car about 15 minutes later. We took the wheels off my bike and threw it on top of his in the rear of the car.

I hopped into the passenger seat and immersed my feet in a sea of trash: fast food bags, candy wrappers, soda cans, dirty clothes, receipts, race entry forms, old race numbers, etc. He threw the car in gear and burned out as we pulled away from my house. I am sure my mom felt like I was in very good hands.

I was not.

We drove through Roseville and hopped onto Highway 65 heading north towards Chico. I don't remember the exact model of the car, a Mercury Bobcat, maybe a Lynx, but I do remember it was a piece of crap. The steering wheel had a bunch of play and the brakes weren't great. As we continued north, the rain fell harder and harder.

The painfully slow windshield wipers were no match for the volume of water hitting the glass. I couldn't see much in front of us, but Don was nonplussed. He was rocking out to the music, eating Wacky Wafers by the handful, and barely paying attention to the road. We were on an undivided two-lane highway and Don was hauling ass.

We hydroplaned just outside of Wheatland. The car turned sideways to the right before he corrected our wayward trajectory. Don just laughed, but I was only two years removed from a serious car accident, so I didn't find it amusing at all. On a couple occasions he dug around in his duffel bag behind his seat or rummaged through the glovebox. We came inches from hitting other cars head on multiple times.

It was absolutely terrifying.

Somehow we reached Chico alive and the rain continued to pour down. I registered for the race and only then found out the details. First would be a road race followed by a time trial in the afternoon. The next morning would be a criterium. As a category 4 racer I would be doing 60 miles in the road race. Cat 3s would race 80, and Don's Pro/1/2 race would be 100 miles.

We lined up for the road race and I really had no idea what was going on. I had raced mountain bikes quite a bit at this point, but road racing was very different. I was used to receiving a course map and an elevation profile, but all I really knew about the course was the distance of 60 miles. The faster groups took off before us at intervals, then my group finally went. Suddenly I was thrust into the kind of racing I had viewed on TV for years, and the weather was just as bad as in those European Spring Classics I had dreamed about racing in.

Road racing was very popular back then, and the Chico Stage Race was a big deal. My category 4 group was pretty big. I don't know the actual number, but I would put it at around 80 to 90 riders.

Riding in a large pack for the first time was a little unnerving, especially in the pouring rain. In some respects the rain might have been advantageous for a first-timer because everyone rode with a bit more caution. I don't remember a single crash.

It only took a few minutes before my glasses fogged up to the point I couldn't see a thing. I tucked them into my jersey, but without them all the rain and spray from the tires around me blinded me just the same. I put the glasses back on but slid them way down to the tip of my nose and looked over the top of them like an old man. They blocked the tire spray for the most part.

It seemed like we rolled downhill forever. I was sitting mid-pack and it all felt quite easy. Before I knew it we had ripped off eight miles. Then we started climbing.

I have no idea where the course was located, and there really isn't any way to find out now. What I do know is a tough little climb exists somewhere around Chico.

The pace was pretty high and I struggled at first, but then I started getting into a rhythm and feeling better. We crested the climb and our group was a bit smaller. After a few minutes we came around a turn and there was the finish line. I looked down at my Avocet computer to see we were at about 10 miles. A lap race. And then I realized I would have to do that awful climb five more times.

The pace picked up on the second lap and it no longer felt easy. The pack turned from a shapeless blob to a single-file paceline. I basically knew how to ride a paceline from riding with friends, but this was the first time I had the opportunity in a race. When my turn came at the front it provided some relief from the tire spray, which was nice, but the energy expenditure was high. I did a solid 30-second pull and peeled off like everyone else was doing. It was painful but fun.

We hit the climb for the second time and I had no problem staying towards the front. We crossed the start-finish line and a few more guys were missing from the pack. Forty more miles.

The pace ebbed and flowed for the next few laps. There were a couple solo attacks, but they were easily reeled in. Each time up the climb I stayed near the front, and more guys dropped off the back.

On the final lap the bigger guys were really hammering. Being a skinny guy, I was in serious trouble, barely hanging on. I was actually looking forward to the last time up the climb where the scales would tip my way.

We hit the final climb and the pace actually slowed up. The riders who were pushing the pace on the flats seemed tired. One of the guys who was in the back with me surged towards the front and I followed his wheel. He upped the pace and I looked back to see he created a split. There were only about twenty guys left.

He peeled off and I took over riding the front. I kept the same pace for a bit and felt pretty good. After a short time I decided to drop down a cog and see who could respond. I rode a hard tempo for about two more minutes and peeled off. I expected to slot in after a long line of guys rode by, but the line was quite short. Only a dozen guys left.

We continued to ride hard on the climb and by the finish a few more riders had dropped off. A couple guys made a short, half-hearted sprint at the finish for bragging rights. The rest of us were content with receiving the same time. I counted six guys in front of me.

I had finished my first road race unscathed, and had scored a seventh place. In my head I thought this would be the norm going forward, and I would go on to dominate road racing. Unfortunately, this would be my best placing in a road race for the remainder of my racing days.

***

After the race I rode back to the car only to realize it was locked. Don had the keys, and he still had roughly 40 miles left to race. I was still so hot from racing that my body was steaming, so I wasn't worried about the rain. It actually felt good. However, as time went on I started cooling down, and before long I was very cold. I waited under a tree, shivering uncontrollably, for almost two hours before Don showed up.

We changed into dry clothes. Bike racing has a funny way of completely lifting your inhibitions. When you are that tired and cold and desperate, getting naked in a parking lot in front of a couple hundred people is the least of your worries. I took my clothes off like I was invisible with no regard for all the people milling about around me.

Don drove to a nearby fast food joint and we ate. I was still cold, eating with my shriveled prune fingers. I had to go right back to the race after we ate because the Cat 4s would go first in the time trial.

When I watched the professionals on TV, the starting order in stage race time trials was based on each racers accumulated time in the race to that point. This would have been nice since I did well in the road race, giving me over an hour to rest and warm back up. Unfortunately our names were posted up on a board and somehow I was one of the first starters. I changed back into riding clothes, put on my wet shoes, helmet and gloves, and warmed up for a few minutes. My name was called to line up. I was stiff, tired and still cold.

After a few minutes of sitting in the rain and getting even colder, the official counted me down and I was off. My heart wasn't really in it, and I felt terrible. Even on the best day, I was never going to be a great time trialist with my slim build. But this was a bad day. I was slow. I was caught and passed by two guys who started behind me. I'm sure I finished towards the very bottom. I never even bothered to look at the results.

After finishing I went back to the car, and I was thrilled to find it unlocked. Don must have been in the vicinity. I took the wheels off my bike and threw it in the back. It was nice to change into dry clothes. Don came back and told me he still had a couple hours until his start slot. We sat in the car and listened to music for a while. With an hour to go, Don got dressed and wheeled away to warm up.

I sat in the car for a couple hours bored out of my mind. It was getting dark outside. Don eventually came back and reported he had done well in the time trial as I knew he would. The guy was fast on the flats.

We again ate some terrible fast food. I remember wondering how Don could be a pro racer and eat nothing but fast food and candy. It still baffles me to this day how he could go so fast on such terrible fuel.

After our gourmet dinner we went to Don's friend's apartment where we would sleep. Don scored the grimy, stained sofa and I was awarded the smelly, carpeted floor. I felt OK with the arrangement because while the carpet stunk like dirty feet, there was no telling what happened on that disgusting sofa. I typically have difficulty falling asleep in strange places, but after a day featuring a hellish car ride, two races and a lot of rain, I closed my eyes and drifted off quickly.

***

The next morning I awoke to brilliant sunshine. Today will be better, I thought. We worked on our bikes and got them running as best we could. Back then bearings were not sealed well, and after a long day in the rain my bike needed a major overhaul. My freewheel was especially cranky and rough. Luckily Don had a pair of sew-up wheels, and he let me use them for the criterium.

The day before had been a long one featuring many hours of soaking rain, cold temperatures, stress and poor nutrition. I finished it up with a terrible night of sleep on a hard floor. And we would start this day with Don's favorite pre-race food: doughnuts.

I was 20 years old and admittedly didn't have a perfect diet. As a bike racer you tend to have limited time between all the training and a job, and you are always hungry. This can often lead to shortcuts. But I did make an effort to get some fruits and vegetables in my body once in a while. Don made no such effort. After spending the better part of two days with him, I was flabbergasted. He was an elite athlete with equally elite junk food tendencies.

I warmed up for the crit and knew it would be a tough day. There are a number of things you need to do for optimal recovery from a previous day's efforts, and I literally did none of them. I emptied the tank the day before and did little to fill it back up.

The race started and the pace was immediately too much for me. I was at the back barely hanging on. The course was very short, so it was basically corner-sprint, corner-sprint over and over. We were shedding riders and the officials were pulling them when it became clear they would not make it back to the pack. After about 10 laps I dropped off the back, and I too was pulled from the race.

Not even finishing was pretty humbling and frustrating for me, especially since I did so well in the road race. I walked away with a new appreciation for professional road racers, especially the guys doing grand tours. Racing hard every day for three weeks was even more difficult to comprehend after doing it myself for only two days.

I changed into street clothes and watched races for the rest of the day. Don's Pro/1/2 race was fun to watch, and he finished near the front.

We drove home and I was no doubt thinking about the upcoming spring mountain bike races where I would be back in my element.

Later.

Race Report: 1988 Pope Valley Road Race

From 1985 through 1987 I kept meticulous records of my races. I kept every number and wrote the name of the race, the date, and my finishing place on the back. After that my record keeping slacked off, so piecing together my 1988 racing season has been more difficult.

I recently wrote about the Chico Stage Race, which I thought was my first road race. However, I later found this picture:

The significance is I'm on my Colnago and wearing my old Vetta "CW" helmet. This suggests the race was before I bought my Faggin in late February. In later road races I am wearing a Giro helmet like the guy is wearing in the lower right.

For many years, the race season started with January's Early Bird Criteriums in Fremont before moving to road races in February. I figure this race must have occurred in early to mid February.

I started to remember some details from the race. The course was something like 60 miles with lots of climbing. There was a big crash that split the field. I ended up in the wrong side of the split. We chased and chased but never made it back. Towards the end I was dropped from the chase group and finished alone, somewhere in the bottom third of the field.

I talked to Steve to get his recollections: "I was with the lead group. Then I wasn’t. Then I too had a solo ride from what I recall. And I limped up the final climb to the finish. Yeah that crash was a bummer. First race and we were split."

What I couldn't remember was the name of the race or where it was exactly. Luckily there was someone there to provide some help: my dad. 

He took a lot of pictures that day, but only two of them featured me. This was out of character for my father. Typically he only took pictures of me or my friends. This was likely his first road race, however, so perhaps after photographing so many mountain bike races he thought it was cool to do a road race. 

I combed through the pictures looking for any clues and found this picture with a road sign:

I scanned it at the highest resolution I could and zoomed in on the tiny green sign. I could easy make out "NAPA" and "LAKE CO" with the arrows. So we were dealing with a road running north-south between Napa and Lake County. The bottom sign was a bit tougher. I could clearly see "POPE" in the middle and something ending with an "LY" on the right. Once I figured out it was "VLY" I was in business.

It turned out to be Chiles Pope Valley Road. Since it was a fairly long road, I needed to find the cross street to really nail down the location.

I scanned Google Earth looking for a road that curved slightly to the right before the intersection. It turned out to be Pope Canyon Road. Although the building has changed and a couple trees are gone, you can see that the road and the hill contours in the background match perfectly. The perspective is off a bit, of course, because my dad was standing on the shoulder and Google Street View scans are taken from . . . wait for it . . . the street.

Current road race schedules don't really have anything in the Pope Valley region, so I hit the Wayback Machine.

As far as bike racing goes, the internet started in about 1996. Before that you are unlikely to find anything of use. I went to NCNCA.org and found a 1996 race schedule, and there it was:

The Pope Valley Road Race. The only problem was the late April date didn't jive with my memory and evidence timeline.

I learned that the race promoter was Napa Valley Velo. I poked around and found this little blurb on their archived web site:

The date change comment suggests the race was previously held at an earlier date, so maybe my February recollection was correct.

Anyway, here I am finishing alone after grinding out 60 hilly miles in what I now believe was my very first road race.

Here's one of Steve (the famous blue Descente jersey, white Oakleys) after he finished.

Later.