Sweet Open Blog

2010 Tokeneke Classic Race Report - Cat 3 

Despite the fact that Patrick raced on Saturday at the Concord Crit (and failed to properly fill out the team name on his registration), I guess I’m up next to write a race report. The Tokeneke Classic has been a staple of the New England calendar for a while now, and you can read all about it on their website. The important take-home is 66 miles, 6600 feet of climbing, and with a few brief exceptions, Roads that are certainly both Sweet and Open.

That said, the course isn’t really for the pure climber. The climbs never stop coming, but there are two solid “rest-up” descents, including a long, open one that can run upwards of 50 mph leading into the final 2.2mi, 5% grade climb. It’s really more of an endurance contest than a test of wattage/mass. 

Like most races that have been around a while, it’s a pretty tight ship. Organizers did commit minor violations of III, X, (and possibly VIII), but the resulting inconveniences were not significant. Parking’s a bit far from reg, but it’s a bike race—put on your helmet and ride it. Swag was decent—gel, electrolyte pills, and some bottles I couldn’t find (possibly lost due to honor system distribution), all from Hammer Nutrition.

Got reg’d, pinned up, checked out the new finish (just past the peak of the climb, rather than on it) which I think is pretty cool, and went to the start line. Realized they were running ~10 min behind, hit the bathroom again, and rolled out. Course begins with a fairly long downhill broken by occasional risers, and people went slowly, minus one hero from umpteen-man squad Cheshire Cycles, who took off solo.

Plenty of jokes about “when do we go off neutral”, but after crossing the dam, chatter stopped abruptly. The first climb on Beach Rock Road, short, not too steep, but full of wrecked pavement, was a nice wake-up call, and despite idiotically battling up the windy side to get forward just before it, I felt pretty good. But when we kept the hard pace over the next few climbs, I’ll admit it made me nervous, and because I needed more problems, I dropped a bar trying to feed during a relaxation of pace. 

Things got even worse for me on the big descent, which I usually find myself riding up on training rides. It’s repaved and smooth, but there are little stutter-waves on the pavement along center of the road; the sort of thing you’d never notice at 12 mph, but that can shake you up a bit at 50—especially when dudes are cutting across the yellow line to get past you. 

Finally got to the bottom, feeling a bit sheepish about how wimpy I’d taken the descent, but also confident that I could make the places back up as things strung out on the climb—except that they didn’t. With a mixture of disappointment (more selective means better for me) and relief (46 more miles of hard pace would be, well, really hard) the pack sat up a bit, and we climbed shoulder to shoulder—minus a Targettraining guy who rode past about 20 people a good yard over the yellow line. 

Second lap went pretty much the same as the first, but definitely felt a little nervousness creeping into the pack before climbs. Fortunately, the section through East Barkhamsted is a pretty regular staple of my training (I’m based out of Hartford) and I just sat on the freshly-laid right side curb—sure enough, as we hit the dam, a gap opened, and I slid right up to the front—even with a disabled RV appearing in the right shoulder.  

We hit the stairstep climbs with some effort once again, finally catching the early solo break, but it just isn’t steep enough to open gaps. I even took a few turns when the suffering seemed highest, but there was just no way to get separation—too many people meant too many opportunities to close gaps. I rode the descent much more confidently, this time taking the right-hand side, but once past the low point, the final climb deteriorates very badly on that side of the road, and I had to give up a few wheels working my way back into the pack.

A little over a KM from the lap/finish, one of the guys driving the race made an attack. I saw it, thought about jumping on it, but decided I might be able to get up there with a little less effort. One or two riders bridged, most fell back, and a gap opened just ahead of the wheel in front of me—which just so happened to be the line-hopping Targettraining guy from earlier. 

I stayed behind him for a good while—why stop him from eating the wind?—and even tried to psych him up, joking that he’d probably get across easier if there were a yellow line to jump. That got a look back, but no uptick in tempo, so as a Nor’East guy surged across, I lept onto his wheel. We were a group of about 12, and even got a bit of a paceline going, but there was never any serious separation, and everyone sat up on the easy portions at the front of the final lap.

After that climbing effort, though, I was starting to get some real fierce stomach cramps, and things were definitely getting dark around the edges upstairs (too bad about dropping that bar earlier). But the weather had been surprisingly cloudy and cool, even some droplets, and with solid hydration, I was feeling—minus the belly pain and tunnel vision—pretty good.

I again passed the Beach Rock Road test, plowing a lone furrow through the potholes and pinecones to the right of the road. The successive climbs felt less good, and even through the legs were still solidly there, I drifted back to save a match or two.  The ref, who’d neutralized us earlier for a break, came through to slow us again, for another 2-man Masters escape. Not sure the slowdown—vs. just parking himself at the front—was necessary, given how much faster they were going, but I generally trust the discretion of the moto. Generally.

A few minutes later, the ref brought the pace down again, hard enough to elicit angry shouts of “slowing” and a squeal from the breaks of a few brave carbon-rimmed souls who refused to put on cork pads. I could not believe my race-blurred eyes when a pack of ~20 Masters, moving at a speed negligibly faster than our own, rolled by.  

I’ll assume that, that as a bigger field, we were stringing out on the hills, our tail slowing significantly in comparison to their head on each stair-step. But this was insanity: we’re moments displaced from a 50 mph+ descent, 40-strong, young and invincible with nothing to live for, all together, all fighting for the win. There’s maybe 20 of them, their podium is up the road, and they have day jobs and children—and the ref thinks they’ll go faster than us?

But hey—the descent, if stressful, is a full aerobic rest, whether we do it at 50 or 15. If he keeps us neutral all the way down, the Masters will get enough gap and we can contest the finish without our fields colliding in a catastrophic mess. Sure, some guys will catch back on who’d have been otherwise out of it, but they’ll be too charred from chasing to factor. 

Yet again, though, the moto ref let me down. As soon as the master’s were past, he let us run, full tilt, to the bottom the hill, chomping at their 35+ heels the whole way. After crossing the bridge, we were on them—surely now they would be neutralized to let us pass?

No. Moto ref man hung there, silent, saying nothing, giving no instruction. Was he waiting to DQ people for crossing the yellow? For illegally drafting the Masters 35+ riders? For disobeying some other order lost to fog of war? I sat in, cranking threshold and waiting for something, anything, until I practically ran into a wall of huffers and puffers with 300s pinned to their backs.

By the time it became clear I could safely get to racing, I’d lost the front of our field in the chaos, riders were smeared out along what seemed like the full length of the climb, and any hope of any respectable placement was utterly lost. I just started cussing quietly and cranking forward as quick as I could.

I wasn’t fresh as a daisy when I crossed the line—allegedly in 28th, :56 seconds back, but who can effing tell—but I had plenty left to give (I was much faster up the climb on the second lap than the finish) and I’m highly skeptical about being “st” with anyone—Green Line Kyle had a couple bike lengths on me, and the last rider I passed was a Master with a clean set of wheels. 

That’s racing, it happens, and the truly strong riders on the day probably weren’t hindered by it. That said, for my entry fee, the man on the motorcycle is there to avoid these problems, not to create them. He may have adhered, verse-and-chapter, to the USCF guidelines for referees (I honestly have no idea—that seemed to be the gist of the official I talked to afterwards) but that still doesn’t mean he did it right. The jury’s there for rulebook pedantry; the ref’s job is to control the race.

I am happy to report that after bringing up the issue in a calm, respectful fashion following the race, the officials were very receptive and understanding, and seemed like they took the feedback to heart for their post-race meeting. Likewise, the race organizers were happy to hear what I had to say—it’s a problem that they’ve occasionally encountered before, but they’re always working on new ways to try and avoid it next time. 

It’s easy to get caught up in the negatives when things go pear-shaped, but outside the finish, it was 64 miles of satisfyingly tough (if not tactically taxing) effort. In the occasional moments spent not focusing on the wheel in front of me, I even got to enjoy some nice (if ever-more-familiar) scenery, and never really felt at risk of getting dropped. Better, I suppose, to be without good luck than good legs.