2008 Race Reports 8 & 9: Wood Dale ABR State Criterium Championships

2008: Race Report #8 & 9: Wood Dale, IL ABR State Criterium Championships
 
Race Report #8: Sunday, July 6. Category: Master’s 40+, Weather: 84 degrees, 9 mph winds. Course: 4 corners, 1 mile, small hill. Distance, 45 minutes plus 2 laps, ~70 riders Average speed, 26.1 mph, Avg. pulse 164

As I tell my friend and new racer Matt on some interval, “You can never judge your future performance in a race by how you feel when you line up: some of my best races ever were begun with overwhelming feelings of tiredness, weakness or even sickness.”

This was a bit of my mantra as I rolled to the line for the first of two or three races that day. I was hoping to complete the Dybowski ‘trifecta’ and race and place in 3 races: the master’s 40, master’s 30, and Pro ½ races. As it turned out I only ended up starting the first two. My friend Matt also started both and as the pictures will show, was having a good series before disaster struck.

Masters 40+ start

For myself it didn’t help that the day before was comprised of a pool party at my house:  I blame Mike Dienhart for any wine consumption that occurred that evening. The fireworks I provided myself and we knew it was a good party when the police arrived to politely shut down the 2” mortar display I was in the middle of shooting off over the pond beyond our house.

 masters 40 field

My legs didn’t feel good at first and that, for whatever reason, is typical of any ride following a swim in the pool – it is as though all that freedom to kick and use all the unused muscles in the legs in all directions causes those straight and narrow cycling muscles to get distracted and I ‘pedaled squares’ for the first half of the race. The pace was fairly consistent – not brutal – but never slow. These Master’s 40’s clearly proved their dominance at Winfield nationals over their younger bretheren.

My favorite spot - the back

I didn’t bother even thinking about chasing breakaways considering that I was planning on racing 3 times and over 100 miles. Eventually, a 6 man breakway did get away – I considered attempting a bridge when the gap was within my range, but decided to save that energy for later races.

With two laps to go, Chris Black – a very strong Master’s racer – pulled his signature move and broke away off the front of the field. I watched him go from the middle of the pack and symbolically tipped my helmet with respect - as I decided at the end of last year my job is the last lap – everything else is merely preparation. Luck will have to decide the one-lap-to-go situation – from there I’ll take the reins if I can..

So suddenly it was 1 lap to go and in fits and starts we passed the start/finish line. I surfed the peleton near the middle. My plan was a little different than normal – rather than ‘finding the perfect wheel’ to the line, I intended to lead out the sprint with about 500m to go – due to the proximity of two back-to-back corners with a short uphill in between shortly before the finish.

 

I figured I could get a gap before the corner to the uphill, put all my horsepower out up the hill, and then try to hold it to the line.

 

However, in between, several riders had strung themselves out in front of the peleton in pursuit of Mr. Black. If you watch the video, I stay safely in the bowels of the peleton until about 50 seconds into the video, and then the camera starts shaking as I get out of my saddle and kick off my sprint. In the video it looks odd – there’s no where to go – but what I’m shooting for is a sudden opening up the right side. Meanwhile you can also see the distances to the lead riders…

 

After my accel I swing all the way right with some momentum and then ride the wind shadows of the riders, following the “string of pearls” of the leading riders, passing each in turn, saving the last two for the uphill stretch. The beauty of this approach was that I never really had to face the wind on my own and could instead put in short sprints (my strength) before putting my head down on the final stretch trying to close in on Chris Black.

 

These are the moments of racing I love – that sudden knowledge that there is gas in the tanks and that despite my heart rate being above 190, that the legs and pedals and bike are willing. Its hard to tell from the video, but my full on sprint only started just as the lead rider looked back on the uphill – that’s when I kicked in the turbo and passed him on the inside setting up the final turn. I actually thought I might catch Chris – but he accelerated yet again and I didn’t catch him – what a stud.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XNcGtopKOnQ]

Race Report #9: Sunday, July 6. Category: Master’s 30+, Weather: 86 degrees, 9 mph winds. Course: 4 corners, 1 mile, small hill. Distance, 45 minutes plus 2 laps, ~45 riders Average speed, 26.3 mph, Avg. pulse 165

Clearly a pattern is developing: there are more 40+ racers in Illinois than 30+, and quite possibly they are stronger as well. Overall the pace was only slightly higher – and that was only from a significant organized chase of a breakway. Otherwise the race was relatively mild.

My friend Matt and I

The first half of the race went quickly and Matt and I rode together quite a bit – switching wheels, sometimes following, sometimes leading. As a breakaway got away, I began to feel guilty for my mentoring of Matt. Yes, for me, a breakaway is a distant target and not something to concern myself with. But Matt’s got an aerobic motor – shouldn’t he be up there?

Matt in the forground of an early crash

As the pace picked up and things began to string out, I swung up the outside on the downhill and said, “we have to get up there” to Matt – and sure enough his motor kicked in and he actually took one of the hardest pulls of the race after a series of hard laps.

 

Ultimately we closed on the leaders and caught them, but in between things went a little haywire. After Matt’s hard pull, we entered the 3rd corner at high speeds and behind me I heard the train wreck explosions that are unfortunately all too common in cycling. I wouldn’t have given it much thought except that Matt had just swung off the lead and was just behind me in the general vicinity of the noise.

 Matt taking the lead

As the next laps unwound, I found no trace of Matt – but neither did I see him on the sidelines, and his 11 year old daughter Rose continued to take pictures – so assumed he was at the tail of the peleton or safely on the sidelines. As it turned either – neither was true.

 Getting busy...

And for a second time it was one lap to go…

 

I had the same general intention of the previous race – to lead out the sprint from the backstretch, but given the smaller size of the field I didn’t move up as aggressively and suddenly found myself boxed in. In the video you can see my switching left to right looking for a hole – I was still intending to lead it out – but when I finally squeezed through a 1 inch hole, I found myself neatly tacked right onto the leadout move - I timed it right and found a hole 58 seconds into the video to follow the leadout, taking the second to last corner at 35mph in 5th, with a lot of power to spare having never seen the wind.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oLM94sE1fEc]

Shrouded by the field I still had not used any real juice and anticipated on using my full sprint on the uphill. As always, plans need to be adjusted – as you can see on the video, just as I began to exit the 3rd corner for my big sprint, the rider in 3rd position clipped a pedal, lost both feet, bounced off rider #4, and then careened into me – feet flapping wide, sending me towards the curb, as I locked both brakes up.

Due to the slow frame rate, what is missing from this scene is the absolute terror of that half second…

In those milleseconds I went from an adrenaline soaked anticipation of a sprint to a two handed skid toward the curb, slowing to 20mph from the 35mph sprint speed around the corner.

My saving grace was the parking lot entrance that allowed me to just miss the curb and then immediately get out of my saddle (camera shaking) to attempt to regain all that lost momentum as my 3 leadout men disappear into the distance. So much happens so fast that the camera misses much – meanwhile as they recede, two new riders winging around me as I try to undo the damage and I find myself in 6th with a big gap to 4th

But I had some horsepower to spare, and I furiously put on the afterburners and re-accelerated uphill back to 35mph and entered the 4th and final corner in 6th, swinging wide with a visual lock on 3rd place coming out of the corner.

This is where the camera really misses the most terrifying moment of the whole race for me. As I accelerate up the outside from 6th position, the the rider in 5th suddenly gets out of his saddle and swings 3 feet to the left, hitting my front wheel, to the sound of angry xylophone, and bending several of my spokes in the process. I lock up both brakes again and swing left and manage to hold onto my bucking and endoing bike.

I screamed an epithet at this point and then coasted to the line. (Virtually all this happens between frames or mostly out of view – all you can see is the sudden appearance of the rider to my right and then the sudden ‘backward’ movement of my sprint). 

At this point I coast in for 5th… feeling lucky.. and scared.

I coasted around and found Matt sitting in the grass in turn 3 - right where I almost went down. His seat was destroyed, and his helmet cracked nearly all the way through. With just a couple key questions I realized he had a concussion - "Matt, what city are we in?"  "Ummm  I don't know - how did I crash? I don't remember..."

Matt's road rash was mild, but his hand started to swell up pretty good. In his short term memory state he reminded me and others several times, “I don’t think it’s broken – just some ligaments – see I can move everything”. But even as his memory returned, “Oh yeah – I had a flat – that’s how I crashed!” the swelling in his hand continued. Eventually he had all his memory back as we sat in the shade near the cars after I was able to obtain ice and water from the very helpful promoter Vince.

Even as he recounted the flat, the skidding, and the eventual contact with the pavement I was reminded of my two close calls in my race and considered myself lucky. A day later and he got his X-ray back – and the base of his thumb joint had basically crumbled (see picture)and was impacted into the other joint, requiring the surgical imposition of metal pins and 6 weeks recovery off the bike minimum. Damn. At least it was his left hand.

Matts thumb Xray

Perhaps I’m a bad friend, but I did remind Matt that time trial handlebars use only forearms and that they might provide him a new, safer outlet while he mends. It is amazing that after 32 years of racing I've never actually had any kind of serious injury - I'm thankful for my luck...

Tomorrow begins the 2008 Superweek series – see my 2008 Race Report 2 ½ for the schedule I’ll be attending, I’m both nervous and excited for the races. I’m nervous because of getting dropped at Grafton… I’m excited because I clearly still have my sprint and if I ever get a chance to actually use it I’m reasonably certain it might bring me results.

Til then,

-John

2007 Race Reports #17 & #18: Elk Grove - Crashing worse..

August 11 & 12, 2007: Race reports 17 & 18, Elk Grove, Illinois

 

Somehow this quiet little Chicago suburb has developed cycling fever with major dollars to be won here over this two day series - one of the only races series besides the nationals to separate the pros from Cat 1/2’s, and the highest purse in all of American cycling . For Cat 1/2: $10,000 day one, and $25,000 day two.

 

Day One: I arrived and used my U. S. Cellular parking passes, complements of Keith Blackmon and our sponsorship there, to park right by the course. As I headed for the registration area, I realized that I had no money. Go figure. Then I passed Frankie Andreu enroute, and, in that instant, childhood bonds worked their magic – I asked him without even a second thought for $60 and he, without blinking gave it to me. I love that about childhood friendships. Of course I paid him back, and of course he didn’t worry about it.

 

The race got underway.  I played it a little safe after last year’s crash, coming around the last corner in second place with 400m to go – and facing a headwind sprint, finally ended up in 7th.

 

Day two: A $5000 first prize, $25,000 total and a fast pace, and an even scarier pack. When I arrived, I coasted to the course only to stumble upon one of those David Lynch-like scenes:

 

A rider had just crashed in the Cat 4 race and was face down alone in the middle of the course, the pack long gone, limbs splayed out at awkward angles and blood was slowly puddling in front of his cracked helmet. As police arrived to cordon off the scene, the rider’s son suddenly appeared. As the boy rushed closer, time rippled away and his 18 years become 8 – and he began screaming, his voice cracking, begging with agonizing high pitched broken shrieks like a little boy, his age betrayed only by the hoarse throaty inhales – trying to push through the gauntlet. “DAD!!!!” – intercepted by paramedics, “Leave me alone!” “DAD! DAD! DAD!!!!” Most of the women standing around the scene were crying. I felt sick. What if Katelina… I stopped the thought.

 

I’m rattled now.

 

The race is nervous, packed and fast. I hang in the back for safety and then make my moves in the last lap to slot to the front. I could go all the way up and lead the sprint like yesterday – guarantee top 10 finish – but I slot in in about 10th – same place that I crashed in last year – to try and have a shot at the win - it couldn’t happen twice – right?

 

In the final lap, the oddest crash I’ve ever witnessed happened. I was moving up the right side of the peleton on one of the mild curves in the long straightaways. Ahead the road narrowed again, so I slotted back into the pack, watching with interest another rider trying to use the same section of pavement to clear all the way into the front of the pack.

 

The subtle turn found his trajectory and that of the lead riders in conflict and predictably, he was forced into the grey metal skeleton of the barriers, with the always surprising loud staccato of handlebars tapping out a rhythm against the ribs, followed by the loud gunshot report of the final catch of a pedal or brake handle and the shrieking of metal on metal and carbon on tarmac as he fell.

 

All this is quite normal, sadly. But what was uncommon was what his feather-lite bike did next.

 

I watched him go down, I watched his shoulders bite the pavement, and then I watched in awe as his feet whipped over his head and launched his bike through the air with exactly the same whipping motion that professional soccer players use for “throw-ins” from the sidelines.

 

His bike knifed through the air sideways like a giant tubular boomerang, traveling at twice our speed, and then even more oddly, scissored onto the seatpost of one of the lead riders – 50 feet in front of the downed rider.

 

It stopped and stuck – perfectly sideways – like a gigantic mudguard over the rider’s rear wheel. The rider was still able to function perfectly and continued to pedal while carting this large pannier over his rear wheel. I’m not even sure he was immediately aware – but all of us started talking all at once with virtually the same words – “holy sh*# - I’ve never, ever, seen anything like that before!”

 

The rider eventually reached down and with some insistent tugging, dropped the errant frame from his own to the dismay of several riders behind who then plowed into it. By this time, the entire front half of the field was laughing though gasping for breath.

 

Meanwhile I moved up…

 

On the backstretch there was a crosswind and we were all riding in the right-hand gutter. There was a leadout man and it was safe because he wound it up to 40mph and stretched it out: 600m to go and I’m in 10th place in a single file line – perfect. Only 200m until the next and final corner – no chance of it bunching up now – I’m safe…

 

Then it happens… the rider in 8th suddenly tracks too close to the curb and has to hop up to keep his balance. No big deal – except that he also brakes, just a little, and then swings back down, bouncing back off the lip of the curb clipping the front wheel of the rider in 9th in the process.

 

At 40mph the physics are virtually instantaneous – rider #9’s front wheel turns from the impact and launches his body like a rocket over the handle bars. My front wheel slams directly into his sideways frame and I repeat the launch – somehow abandoning my bike in the process.

 

When I finally skid to a stop, I’m over 100 feet from our interlocked bikes and in a state of absolute adrenaline overload from the preceding moments in between.

 

The in-between is the worst kind of torture. You might imagine that the meat of your limbs, grinding against the sandpaper of concrete at 40mph might be a nerve jangling grating experience, but its nothing like that at all.

 

Imagine pressing your hand to a smoking hot iron griddle left too long on the burner in the kitchen – that’s the initial feeling – that incredible overwhelming desire to pull it away from that searing, smoking pain. But… this is where it really gets worse – now imagine as you try to pull away, that someone clamps down on your hand, and presses your palm 2, and 3 times as hard into the pan, flattening the flesh, burning quickly into those softer recesses – those most sensitive areas.

 

THAT’s what it feels like when your naked flesh skids across yards of pavement at 40mph – first it was my shoulder held to the burning crucible, harder, harder, smoldering as I shriek internally, and then a sudden tumble, legs flailing, shoes clipping the pavement and then my hip – smoldering, flaming, and then my leg, my other shoulder, my knee, my elbow – and so on like the spasmodic turnings of a hellish human rotisserie.

 

When all is done, the concrete has burned holes through my skinsuit in a half dozen spots, and burned raw deep flaying wounds in both shoulders, both elbows, both knees, both shins, and worst of all, two red pancake sized rib-eyes into both sides of my gluteus maximus.

 

I retrieve my bike. I mount. I sit. I ride. “You gotta get back on the bike Coyle!” Walden’s voice plain as day in my head.

 

I laugh my way through the eternal cleaning, scrubbing, and bandaging process in the medical tent, marveling at my own progress in compartmentalizing the pain. But I know the worst is to come. Always before the road rash has had a “side” to it – front, left, right, or back. But this time – no place to hide, and no place to sit down. No place to sleep.

 

Walking back to the car I find myself suddenly shrinking with embarrassment – like a kid in junior high who has thrown up in the hallway. Pausing for the janitor to scrub it up, and now suddenly I can’t wait to not be seen… why?

 

Sitting down in the bed on the day after the crash takes over a full minute, and relaxing each abdominal contraction creates a new swollen compressing burning agony. Waking past midnight, I realize I am stuck to the sheets, wanting to turn, but I can’t without massive tearing agony.

 

I’m frozen. Claustrophobic.

 

 I stare at the ceiling and feel the fibers of the gauze slowly but inevitably cleave to my flesh in an itchy ratcheting progression – each requiring an agonizing bloody separation the next morning with the change of bandages. What, exactly, is it in the body that provides the yellow color to the gauze?

 

Back at work the next day, it requires 20 seconds to sit down on all the gauze between me and the seat, and nearly as long to stand up – feeling the seepage, seeing the small stains on my dress pants – back to the restrooms for 2, now 3 gauze pad changes. Why do I do this again?

 

A few days  later and I’m out on a post- superweek training ride. I have always loved training rides at this time of the season. Gone are the muscular aches and pains. Gone is the guilt for not putting in more hours, gone is the need to put in massive efforts. If in April the same level of effort and discomfort was 14 mph, in August it was 22mph – gained in the passing months was fitness, confidence, speed, the wind, and that August air – heat and light and that special warm blue…

 

Usually, when I’m feeling good on a training ride and don’t have a particular agenda, I’ll suddenly sprint – warm up the legs, get a good bit of speed going, feel the wind of 25, 30, 34mph stream past my face. This all usually takes about 10 seconds – from concept to fulfillment.

 

Today was different. Suddenly I felt no real spring when I started up out of the saddle. But instead of sitting down I continued on, ‘winding it up’ – something I usually hated to do. But I was loving it – this gradual inertia, faster, longer on the pedals, breathing – breathing – what a novel concept in a sprint – and ever faster.

 

The hum began and extended – what a pleasure to be able to “sprint” for more than a few seconds. I finally started to have a vague concept of what some athletes felt or meant when they said “I attacked and then kept going” – it was a feeling of extended power, confidence, tenacity.

 

30 seconds in, my speed was at 30mph. 45 seconds and I was at 31mph. One minute and I was at 32mph… This was an eternity at this speed and I was proud, confident. I used my reserves to push beyond my usual limits …. Looking down with expectation was deflated by the 33mph I saw there. Even out of shape I could usually hit 34 mph – lost… lost… lost…lost was the ‘magic.’

 

My sprint was gone.

 

I had become a “roadie.”