Sweet Open Blog

Green Mountain Stage Race - Cat 3 Men

So, realizing I’m like a mile behind on reports and have already done two races since this one with at least one more notable event upcoming…

The TT: Up a hill and then very light, hard-pedaling descent. Last year I rode the hill really, really hard but couldn’t seem to get into the really big gears afterwards.  This year I took it easier on the climby part and still couldn’t turn the big gears—at max effort, my HR actually dropped. It’s kinda like every other TT in that I know where I’ll finish before I start.  Fortunately, Matt did much better, and Patrick was saving things up for the circuit race.

Circuit Race: I thought briefly about trying some KOM-y kinda move at the beginning of the day, but it was immediately apparent that I had the most irritating legs of all—good enough that getting over the climb presented no immediate challenge, but bad enough that I couldn’t do much in the way of making the race. I will refer to them henceforth as “cheese legs”.

Fortunately, Patrick was going to be all about the sprints today, and I was happy to be all about the leadouts. First lap, two riders went clear on the back of an almost break-away proof (at least at this level) course. I did a bit of work keeping a lid on other would-be moves, and was ready to put the hammer down pulling the dudes back, but Patrick told me to lay off and let some other people work.

Our only challenge at the sprint line (this is for 3rd place, mind you) seemed to be a two-man NEBC train, who we took care of pretty easily. Patrick took 3rd, NEBC dude 4th. I recovered well enough over the gentle grades after the sprint, but cheese legs prevented me from trying anything clever. Drank, fed, assessed supplies pre-feed zone and decided to stay out of that mess.

It occurred to me, as I watched faster people fly away from my cheese legs as I cheese-legged my way past people going all out to survive over the climb with a similar ease, that I hadn’t seen Patrick in a while. I slowed up and took a look back, and saw him clinging on at the back of the field.  The climb is followed by a big, fast descent, so he probably could have closed it on his own, but a little tow work from me wouldn’t hurt.

Sure enough, we rejoined, and with the day’s earlier move reeled back, it was a sprint in earnest for the line this lap. Matt came forward at around a KM to go, which was nice, but there was some miscommunication, leading me not to jump past him when Patrick wanted me to, and some Bikeman dude flew up the right side of the road. Making matters worse, Patrick was nipped for second by one of the two riders from the early break.

We conferred a bit after the sprint about improving things next time, but Patrick was wrestling mightily with blood sugar, and after I checked in with him again leading into the climb, it became clear that he’d be looking simply to finish today. I passed him a bottle and cheese-legged up back to the bulk of the group, made sure Matt wasn’t doing anything stupid, and did a little work keeping him out of the breeze.

A threatening GC group did manage to get free on the final lap, and the Yellow Jersey holder had to put in some serious wattage to keep them close enough that the sprinters and their teams would work to bring it all back. The group at the line was less than 50 riders, and as a result, it was a pretty safe sprint compared to last years’ carnage. Matt and I were both ST, and happy enough about that.

Road Race: This is a great course, made even more exciting by the addition of a moderate climb (the TT backwards, essentially) right at the gun. I was initially worried (ok—secretly hoping) that someone would attack it and all hell would break loose, but it was a pretty tame ascent and detour, with the first attacks going only as the group came through Warren Center.

There were a fair number of probing attacks along Rte 100, as sprinters/teammates tried to shuffle out a breakaway group that would be pleasing to all involved. As we began the long 1-2% climb at Granville Gulf, an NEBC rider drifted far enough clear that he might have soloed, but I decided that would be lame, and tempo’d the field back up to him.

Moments later, a group of four or five—including Patrick—got clear, and were joined a few seconds later by a similarly sized bunch, including Matt. I did the best I could to stay at the front and ride a false pace that would hopefully make the rest of the group think I really was trying to chase down my own sprinter and GC leader.

Somehow, probably with the assistance of the teammates of other breakaways, the ruse was successful. One or two other riders jumped away solo, but with the speed of the downhill leading into the sprint, if you weren’t there at the top, it’d take something miraculous to get there by the bottom.

Improving things immeasurably, our field was neutralized to let the Masters 40+ pass after the sprint line, leading to a massive pee break in which I went ass-over-tea-kettle underestimating the depth of the grass in a ditch at the side of the road while rolling to a stop. Further interference with the Masters field, and it was a fat four minutes up to Matt/Patrick by the time we started heading up Midd Gap in earnest.

Sadly, the legs didn’t realize how awesome this situation was. Despite being well-fed and watered, they weren’t really with it when Midd began.  I averaged 170 on the climb—not exactly redlining it. But that was all I could get out of them—a full-on, excruciating, lactate-filled effort to hold wheels from the waist down, while whistling Dixie up top.

On the descent it became clear that things would not get better as the day rolled on. A flat portion near Breadloaf—albeit into a stiff headwind—almost killed me when I had to close a gap. Team wise, we didn’t catch Patrick until about the Ripton Death Spiral, which was reassuring—Matt must be way up the road—though it did lead to the revelation that he’d been forced to settle for second in the sprint.

Turning back onto regular roads in Middlebury, my legs felt decidedly starchy, like none of the lactic acid had drained or been catalyzed, but had simply cooled off, and was waiting for the slightest bit of friction from muscle contraction to whip back into boiling frenzy. Worse still, we caught Matt on a roller before even reaching the exciting part of the race. He’d taken a few KOM points, but been shelled from the leaders due to cramping. Bummer, especially considering the break was still well up the road.

Between Midd and App Gap and all-too-frequently overlooked are two short, leg-wrecking, gap-forming climbs, bookending a few sections of totally awesome dirt. My approach has always been to shred the first climb and get a good spot on the dirt, and hope maybe something race-deciding happens on this brief bit of classics-style riding.  My legs were so busted, though, that while I made it up the climb ok, I couldn’t find the watts to hold position on the dirt.

Sitting in a not-great spot (20 riders down?) on the dirt I’d used to cause so much mayhem over the past few years was slightly karmic, I suppose. But other than battling sheer terror, the urge to brake, and the occasional *WHAM* of and out-of-nowhere pothole, it was also kind of fun. I saw one rider who simply did not have the mass to keep his tires on the ground miraculously pedal out of two rear-wheel slides that took him a good 30 degrees out of line with the rest of the group.

The second short, steep climb was scratched from this years course due to road work, and while Gary Kessler, the Race Director, said it would “not spare [us] from having a good climb into Bristol”, it was pretty tame.  What was not tame, however, was the moving-right-along chase that followed along Route 116. Seems there was some GC meat up the road, and those left behind were driving it to keep the gap small.

As Route 17 turned off toward App Gap, I was feeling far more miserable than a man who’s had three bottles, three bars, a goo and a caffeine pill has any right to feel. Getting over Baby Gap—all 3.9% of it—was a serious investment of will power on my part. Even cruising along at 165 BPM was a massive ask from my shattered legs, and after the descent to the foot of App Gap, there was just nothing there.

Still, I managed to loose only 4:35 on the climb, finishing 42nd and even managing to beat one other rider who’d made it to the bottom of the climb with the bunch.

Criterium: Nothing to say here except I don’t like the way this stage is run. It’s one of the greatest crit courses in New England, but neutralizing the first two corners really ruins it. The faux-neutral start lets dudes without watts/handling skills get into the middle of the bunch instead of getting strung out to the back in the sprint off the line.

It also makes it so that the field takes up the full width of the road as the race goes live—into a series of downhill, 90-degree corners. Maybe the guys running this show have forgotten/never experienced, but a Cat 3 crit is terrifying enough when people are riding single file. Even good riders can only negotiate so many brake-humping, line-switching, non-pedaling doofers—and close the gaps they form—before running out of steam.

If the organizers think there’s too little space to spread out the field with the short uphill before the first corner, I think they should move the start line back down the hill a bit so the race can string out before the hole shot. Watch a ‘cross race sometime and it will become evident what I mean.

Anyway, I was 47th overall, and Patrick took our second Lanterne Rouge of the season (after my disaster at Catskills) in 65th—still an accomplishment, considering that 19% of the field failed to finish.

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.

2010 Tour of the Hilltowns Race Report

Cat 3 Men

I suppose I better write this up before we get all busy with things this weekend. Hilltowns is a tough road race, 56 miles, East Hawley Road in the middle of things and a not especially pleasant series of uphills over the final few miles. I’ve done it twice before (‘03 and ‘04) as a Cat 4, with no noteworthy results. 

This was my first race with SweetOpenRoads.com p/b The Bike Hub, and for the first 20 miles (netting ~1000ft of descent with a few rough pavement patches), my primary objective was to keep teammate and under-hazed freshman rising sophomore Matt Nichols well-positioned and out of trouble. 

It was an easier task than anticipated, both because Matt kept himself situated pretty well, and because the pack was steady (relatively speaking) on their bikes. There were more than a few flats, but I only heard about a small crash or two, and even then, after the race. A break of two did get clear early—something about which Matt expressed concern on the run-in to East Hawley road—but I was certain that if the four miles of climbing didn’t get them, the next thirty of wide state highways and unyielding headwind would. 

I was third wheel making the turn onto East Hawley road, and kept near the front until the Town Line sign before settling into a more-or-less threshold effort. People tend to over-race this climb, but with no KOM prime, a pretty tame descent and a long way to the finish line, no sense to burn more matches than necessary here.

Matt went by me as someone accelerated, and I told him not to get too excited. He responded by throwing up “the horns”—have I mentioned that he hasn’t been hazed enough?—and danced away with the rest of the leaders. I watched the action, but made no real effort to close gaps except on the flatter sections.

East Hawley’s a “pretty humbling stretch of pavement”, to borrow a quote from PVB, but you can save time with your brain—direct sunlight softens dark asphalt patches, it’s worth the extra effort to cut up the steep inside lines on the corners, and your watts go a lot further on the flatter sections at the top.

I took a quick peak over my shoulder on the last little rise and saw a group coming up—one guy even called me out by name, recognizing the Cyclocosm logos on the kit. I eased off a touch and hopped onto their pace line; I think we swelled to about 12-15 by the time we were descending in earnest, but the co-operation was pretty ugly. One BCA guy in particular seemed to think he could best serve his interests by attacking and then sitting 50 meters ahead of the rest of the group.  

I’m guessing we were the second major group on the road. I—along with plenty of other riders—put in some good-faith pulls to bring us back to the field, but once the main field got in sight, I went to the back and sat on. There’s only so much help another rider would have been in the mess driving our group anyway. 

Regrouped, I checked in with Matt and told him to eat an energy bar. I also tried to gather info on the race situation—2/3 guys were away, and Kissena guy was incensed that I wasn’t chasing. I tried to explain the rigors awaiting the escapees over the next 25 miles, but he was having none of it, got angry and attacked. 

Matt asked me how my sprint was feeling, but I wasn’t so sure it would come to that. After a few more miles of just rolling through and taking easy turns, we decided it was time to get after this in earnest, so I rolled up to the front and cranked things up a notch. I thought I’d gone into the pacesetting pretty gradually, but I ended up getting a gap, so I eased off, and then re-upped the tempo as the group got in contact. 

Not sure how long the pull I took was, but it felt pretty good, and seemed to get some other guys motivated. Matt even got into the effort a little bit—perhaps unnecessarily—and I told him we shouldn’t do any more work now that the break was back in sight; the pack, collectively, would close things down. 

A few miles later, probably 47 into the race, I started discussing endgame strategy with Matt, and we came to the conclusion that it would be good to hit the first pitch (about 6 miles from the end)  with the field lined-out to reduce things to a small group battle as soon as possible; the intention being to drop teammates who were just hanging on to the tail of the group to give us a numerical advantage as the final attacks/counters played out.

Once again I went to the front and steadily dieseled up the tempo, and once again, I looked over my shoulder to see a pretty enormous gap. Despite not being able clear it with the team car, I dropped it a few cogs in the back and took off, trying to get a few of the sweeping corners between myself at the field. 

As they were just getting out of sight, I noticed a Rhino Bike Works guy who’d put in some good turns earlier was also clear of the field and closing on me. I didn’t wait (I didn’t need to) and we shared the work pretty evenly up to the first pitch of the climb, were it became clear he was going up hill a bit faster than I. 

I debated going red to hold his wheel as long as possible, but went instead with riding a pace I knew I could hold through the steep section; I’d be able to open up more time (or lose time more slowly) on the flatter pitches toward the top anyway—especially with Matt back in the group, making a mess of things in any would-be pace lines.

Once off the steeper first pitch, I fell into a pretty good rhythm, just over threshold, moshing away and keeping the Rhino guy in sight. I checked over my shoulder only once, on the on the sole descent of the last few miles and—surprisingly—saw no one. It started to rain on the last pitch, and as I came inside the final KM, I was pretty sure it was going to work out. 

Sadly, it did not. The course ends with a 180 turn at roughly 200m to go, and as I lined up for that corner, I could hear the hiss of tires on the wet road behind me. I wasn’t overwhelmed by the realization, though, and managed to grab a good wheel as the sprint kicked off. Unfortunately, and for reasons I don’t entirely comprehend, I came off that wheel and slowly bled places until I finally crossed the line in 8th.  

It’s tough to feel bad about that finish in a race this hard, especially going into the day as a worker. But it’s also tough to know that I could have stayed clear for second with a bit more luck, or sprinted to a possible Top 5 if I’d kept my head on straight. Still, plenty more results for the team to look forward to with Matt, Paul Salipante and myself all riding well coming into Tour of the Catskills.