Fishing the Battenkill

Sometimes life takes you on unexpected journeys.  In February I wasn't really planning on racing the "Queen of American Classics" this year.  It wasn't on my schedule of races.  Southern Cross, yes. Barry Roubaix, yes. But a trip to New York didn't really seem in the cards.

Then all of a sudden, it was. 

My friend and former athlete Marc suggested I come to New York for the Albany Spring Classic Track and Field meet.  He was planning on coming out of retirement and throwing the javelin again.

My friends and former athletes Brandon and Tasha invited me to New York to help them celebrate their nuptials on April 25.

The Society for Industrial and Organizational Psychology accepted my poster submission for the annual conference in Philadelphia on April 22nd - 25th.

The Master's 35+ Cat 1-4 race at Battenkill was on Sunday April 19th.

Now all of a sudden, there were some dots on a map.  Could we connect them all?

Mor and I talked it over, looked at the calendar, and decided Yes! This called for an epic road trip. 

I booked my flight to SIOP to fly in and out of Albany the friday before the conference. I had Johnny Sprockets set me up with some S-works tubeless 24mm tires, box up "the Rabbit" (my Cervelo S2), and ship it to Marc's office.  I reserved a rental car with unlimited miles.  We packed our passports just in case.

We flew in to Albany, and in a moment of travel brilliance I completely forgot about our checked luggage, and made straight for the rental car pick-up counter. Mor gave me "the look", and made her way to our abandoned bag, and saved us from a trip back to the airport later that evening. 

We then headed due north to Saratoga Springs to pick up the race packet and have dinner. at a lovely little place on Broadway called Wheatfields.  We then headed back down to Troy to spend the night with Marc and Talia, our gracious hosts for the evening. Saturday morning we slept in late, then I went to work re-assembling my bike.  I had brought my torque wrench (in the almost abandoned checked bag), so I was prepared for the moment.  As I unboxed the frame and wheels, I had a moment of brilliance, and labeled all of the various pieces of packing material with a red sharpie so I would be able to put everything back just the way it came to me. I then moved onto assembling the bike. Having no repair stand made the work a little more labored, as I was trying to steady the bike and assemble it at the same time.  It was relatively painless, and it felt good to be able to do that myself.

I then took it out for a quick spin.  I made it about a mile, and the Rabbit was making a small grinding noise as I pedaled. I wasn't able to determine the cause while I was climbing, so I pulled into a driveway and turned the crank manually.  I found that my chain was grazing the edge of my chain-keeper once every rotation of the crank.  I grabbed the chain catcher and tried to bend it, but instead of bending there was a "pop" sound, and the chain catcher got a little loose, and when I got back on the bike I quickly found that my front shifting had gotten really sketchy.  I had to shift the chain all the way down onto the smallest chainring on the rear cassette to get it to go from the little to big ring up front. 

I figured I would adjust it that night when we got back from the track meet.  I went home, took a shower, and we got in the car to head to the track meet.  When I told Mor about my ride, she said:

"Why are we not taking the bike to a bike shop to have it fixed?"

<crickets>

So that night, after the meet, after dinner, it was time to adjust my front shifting.  I could tell that the front derailleur had come loose, and that the bolt needed to be tightened.  I opened the user manual back on my phone, found the right tension, and started to torque it up.  Except that it didn't stop turning.  It just keep spinning and spinning.  Uh-oh.

So I took the cable out, took the front derailleur off, and sure enough, the threads off the end of the bolt were completely stripped.  It was no longer a bolt, just a peg.  My only hope was to take off the chain keeper, thread the bolt back in, and pray that I could catch enough threads to limp through the race.  Mind you, I was doing this work without a stand, trying to balance the bike with one hand and pull appropriate cable tension with the other, kneeling in a dark poorly lit porch.  Even with the chain keeper removed, the bolk did not get enough "bite" to tighten to speck. The only thing holding the derailleur in place was friction caused by the cable tension pulling it down. You could wiggle it with your fingers. 

So I did the best I could, and did the walk of shame upstairs to tell my wife that HER intuition about MY bike was correct, and that we would be spending the morning frantically trying to find a mechanic. 

The Battenkill is a famous trout stream.  When my parents came to help me move to Albany in the fall of 2000, they continued on to the coast of Vermont and Maine. At Christmas a few years later, my father said that he wished that he had at least tied a string to a stick and thrown it in the river just so he could say that he fished the Battenkill.  So when he came to help me move back to the midwest in 2006, I arranged some time in the schedule so we could get licenses, fishing rods, and go fish the Battenkill, so it wasn't my first time in that part of the country.  The race only crosses the Battenkill proper in two places, but crosses innumerable feeder streams and brooks, and circumnavigates it's drainage basin in New York State (the headwaters are in Vermont).

The second day of the Battenkill is the smaller of the two days.  On Saturday there were something like 6 different Cat 4 fields with more than 100 riders each.  The combined 35+ Cat 1-4 field on Sunday morning had 18 pre-regs.  The race predictor had me pegged as #16. 

We arrived at 7AM, 2 hrs and 10 minutes before the race, with the hopes of finding a mechanic on site who might have the required parts to fix the bike.  At the time, I wasn't confident that I would even be able to start the race.  It wasn't a great feeling.  I rode from the parking to the expo-area and found that we were some of the first people there, and no mechanics had arrived yet.

So I rode back to the car where I was uncharacteristically scrambling and disorganized. I was struggling to find the right mix of base layers, arm warmers, and socks for the cool temperatures, and was worried about whether or not I could even start the race with a bike that couldn't reliably shift into the big ring.

[Pausing for the collective groan of my single speed friends...and moving on].

Mor was not happy with my level of disorganization. It was not our normal style.  Eventually I was able to pull myself together, get my clothing dialed in for what was shaping up to be a chilly morning (in the mid 40s at the start), and get my nutrition aligned and packed. I tooled around the fairground a little, running back and forth between the parking lot and the exposition trying to find a mechanic and get ready. I used the time to test out the bike, and found that even after my "repair", I could still get the chain on the big-ring if it was in the smallest gear on the rear cog AND I pushed the shift lever ALL all the way in, AND soft-pedaled. The worst case scenarios seemed to be dropping a chain and for some reason losing the ability to shift into the big ring. It wasn't pretty, but I was limping. I mentally committed to the race.

The mechanics were not in the Expo at 8AM when they should have been, so I wasn't able to talk to them until about 8:10AM.  Short story is, they weren't able to fix the issue, only get it working to about the same degree as I had before, and I didn't get my bike back until 8:45AM.  I rode back to the car to say good bye and kiss my wife, and the first words out of her mouth were "Where are your water bottles?"  She had put them on my bike, and I had not yet noticed that the mechanics had taken them off.  It was that kind of morning. It would have been a long 68 miles with a single bottle of water.

They say that the longer the race, the less you need to warm up.  Well, with 1.5miles in spread over a whopping 11 minutes of warm-up time, I put that theory to the test.  Just after 9AM I headed to the start line, and rolled up behind some skinny looking dudes from Boston. The "One2go,one2go,one2go" guy was on the microphone asking them about their team name. I learned that 545 Velo is a team out of Newton, MA. 5:45AM is the time they meet for their weekly Wednesday morning group ride.  I shuddered at the thought.  I am not a morning person. 

Without much fan-fare, the pace car rolled out of the fairgrounds at 9:10AM, and we were in following down a flat stretch of pavement.  There was a neutral for a short bit, we turned right, and the pace quickened.  My race strategy was simply to A) sit-in, and B) hold on for as long as possible. There were three Cat 1s, three Cat 2s, five Cat 3s, and four Cat 4s in my field.  I kept reminding myself that I should not be the one attacking off the front this time.

Things went well early on.  A few fliers went off the front in the first 20 minutes, but did not hold their breaks.  We cruised fast downhills and the climbs were short enough I was able to hold pace. I was working, but not dying. After 20 minutes I clicked my lap timer, to remind myself to start getting nutrients in my system. By the time I needed them it would be too late to intake.  Six minutes later we were climbing up Meetinghouse Rd towards what I could see in the distance was our first section of gravel. I sense tell that the casual pace was about to get frenetic, so I tried to prepare by delicately downshifting from big ring to small ring up front.  It wasn't delicate enough. Just as the field attacked at the first transition to gravel I dropped my chain.  I had to dismount, wrestle with it for a few seconds, and then remount. The field was gone.

I hit my lap timer again, to signify that I was now riding alone, and attacked the nothingness in front of me.  As I crested the first big hill fueled by frustration I could see the pack down across the next valley.  The only thing I could think to do was to go get them.  So that is what I set out to do.  At the top of the next hill were some photographers.  I quoted "O'Brother where are thou" and asked them "How's my hair." Mor was there too, snapping photos just up the road.  I had hoped to find her while I was still attached to the main group, but instead she got some great shots of me soloing off the back.

For the next 47 minutes I ground on alone into a crossing wind over and down the second significant climb. Every once and a while I could see the peleton ahead of me. Then a few stragglers who fell off.  I put my crosshairs on their backs, and drove my feet into my pedals.  I rode alone for 15.7 miles at an average speed of 19.7 mph.

When I finally caught the next rider, we immediately started working together, and quickly reeled in the 3rd.  I don't know what their thoughts about it were, but I was vocal in suggesting we all work together. We had turned into the wind, and after facing it alone for a few miles, it was such a physical and psychological relief to be able to tuck in behind a someone else for a few moments and catch my breath.  How much of a difference did it make?  I clicked my lap timer again, when we started working as a threesome.  My average speed during that lap was .7mph faster than the previous solo lap, but average heart rate was 5bpm slower.  More speed, less effort. Thanks Wilson and Patrick. 

The effort was relatively short lived.  We worked together for 22minutes, enough to cover 8 miles, and the unthinkable happened.  We caught up to the leaders of our wave.  Even the woman driving the follow car shouted encouraging words at us, that they were right there and we could go get them.  Had I any breath I would have suggested that she take a pull if she was so interested in getting there, but I had none left, only espirit de escalar.  We had closed the gap to 100m or so, and I gave one last final push to get us over the top and the three of us tucked in behind the lead 9 riders who were still together.  I had been dropped because of a mechanical, and was somehow able to claw myself back onto the lead group. Pant, pant, pant.  It was time to return to my goals of sitting in, and hanging on. 

And so I held on, for a whopping 2 minutes and 20 seconds.  The reason we caught up with the field is that they were all sitting up in anticipation of the start of the 3rd big climb.  Meanwhile, the three of us were attacking like maniacs trying to catch back on.  Which we did, just in time for a big attack half a mile up the road.  In hindsight, there wasn't much else to do. Had we read the "signs" a little better, guys sitting up and drinking, slowing down, we might have been able to sit up as well. But had we done that, we probably wouldn't have re-attached at all.  We would have reached the climb as a threesome, not re-attached, and likely been torn apart anyway. We definitely had different climbing abilities. The end result would have likely been the same.  The three of us would have been minutes apart from one another, and minutes off the field at the top of the climb.  But at least we can say that we worked together and reattached to the main group which is an accomplishment in it's own right. 

So I was alone again.  I made it to the top of the climb, and then set my sights on Wilson and Patrick, my two compatriots.  I'm not usually vindictive, but I was just a tiny bit happy that neither of them had been able to hang on to the main group. I would have been more than a little pissed if I made that last big surge, got them reattached, and then fell off alone like a booster rocket and watch them speed away with the leaders. Nope, we were all three once again in No-man's land.  I caught Patrick first.  We were in the rolling flats between two climbs, and I passed him.  I encouraged him to grab my wheel, but he did not and I pushed on alone. 

Next was a junior from the 9:00AM field.  I was more than a little disappointed when I finally caught him, and realized he was in a different field.  I had been hoping I was reeling in a place from my own field. Instead I caught a child.  Next up was Wilson in his highly visible red and white kit. Wilson was the first rider I had to chase down the first time I fell off.  The hardest part about chasing him down Was that we were very evenly matched, with similar strengths, so he surged when I surges, and he slowed when I slowed.  I finally caught up with him on what turned out to be the fourth climb.  I gave him a fist bump, and he said, "I'm just trying to finish." 

Me too my friend, me too.  I had shifted into survival mode the second I got dropped the second time.  We took turns pulling up the hill.  We crested with me in the lead, but after we got up to 30+mph he passed me again, and then disaster struck again. The strong crosswind, plus chatter from the road, caused my chain to start bounding so much that it fell off the front chain ring again.  I wasn't shifting this time, it just bounced off.

Not only did it drop into the gap between the small chain ring and the frame, there was now enough slack that the chain had also been sucked into my rear wheel and was slapping against the spokes.  I slammed on my brakes at 35mph and locked up my rear wheel to keep the chain from snapping a spoke and skidded to a stop.  If you look closely at my Garmin track you can find the exact spot where one click I was going 33mph and the next click I was at zero. Wilson disappeared down the hill and another rider, the second junior rider I had just passed, zoomed by just as I got my chain on and rolling downhill again. 

Thankfully Patrick did not catch me, but Wilson was gone.  I was able to catch up with the Junior again, and he decided to get chatty.  I tried to maintain my composure and not get snippy, but I was not in a good mood having lost my chain and Wilson again.  He told me about his racing crits in THE City (i.e., NYC), and the tour of the Catskills and something called the Devil's Kitchen.  I mumbled here and there about Barry and SouthernCX and mountain biking, but mostly I couldn't talk because I was working REALLY hard to catch Wilson, and this teenager was riding along side me at a conversational pace.  I can not tell you how badly I wanted to drop him, how many times I subtly attacked him over the next 20 minutes, but was unable to escape.  The attacks were subtle not because of any sense of courtesy, but because I was completely out of matches.

He did give me some intel about the race we were doing. Apparently there was a big climb on Joe Bean Rd, one of the hardest ones in the race, coming up, and from there it was all downhill from there.  Mor was out on the course taking photos at the top of this hill.  I was in such a dark place that I didn't even see her bright white coat or hear her melodious voice cheering me on.  She coined the hashtag #JoeBeanisNoJoke.  I concur.

Unfortunately Joe Bean Rd was not the last climb in the race.  One the way to the last climb, I started getting passed by the lead riders from later waves.  I think I confused the heck out of Andy Schmidt, a midwest Junior from Lake Geneva when I said, "Mr Schmidt, nice to see you today" as he and three other younger juniors from the next wave passed at the beginning of the last climb.

Patrick, my compatriot passed me on the last climb too. He said "You are faster than me on the flats my friend" with a wink in his European accent, and I replied, "And you are faster than me on the climbs, Godspeed" and I never saw him again either.  Things got really blurry from that point onward.

At mile 60 I was going to take the last salt pill from my handlebar, and fumbled it onto the road.  I turned my head back and saw it come to a halt on the pavement, and made a snap decision to not turn around and pick it up, and just ignore the cramps that were building in my legs, and just get home.  I had some nutrients left which I finished, drank some water, and started to pedal as much as I could. I was able to get enough sodium back into my muscles to finish the race without serious cramping.  Just some of the "slow it down a bit" kind of almost cramp.

At the last climb of the race, a short but steep gravel climb with a switchback, another master's racer caught up to me. As he passed I saw his number was in the 200 series and called out that I was relieved he was in a different wave.  I told him there wasn't anything I could do about him passing me, but at least I didn't have to feel bad about it.  I was grateful that as I covered the last 3km there was no one coming up behind me.  I checked often, as I did not want to be pinched at the line by anyone, and would find some strength to hold off anyone else from passing me.  Thankfully no one else came.  Mor was at the finish waiting and cheering, and my doctoral committee chair and friend Kevin was waiting the end of the chute with a bottle of water.  He had raced the day before, but came back up on Sunday to get some miles in, see some of the race, and try to catch up with me a bit. He and I rolled around to cool down a bit, and chatted. It was very nice to see him.  After that, we went back to the car. I took a shower at the fairgrounds, packed up the car with three suitcases and the bike, and set off for Portsmouth, New Hampshire to start the rest of our vacation.

The results:
68.2 miles with 4,921ft of climbing in 3:35:57 (Avg speed 18.9mph)
50 miles in no-mans land.  
12 out of 16 finishers (1 DNF).
2nd Cat 4 finisher
17min 27sec behind the leaders
5:30 behind Wilson (first Cat 4)
2:24 behind Patrick. 

Barry Roubaix Five

My cyclocross season in 2014 was good, but not as good as I would have liked. I hovered in the twenties and thirties in the local CCC races when I wasn't having mechanicals, flats, or just rolling around in the sand for fun.

Most of what I wrote in the first couple paragraphs last year's Barry-Roubaix wrap-up remained true this year.  The Barry-Roubaix is the boogieman that scares me outside into bitter cold to face snow and wind when it would be so much easy to stay inside and snuggle with my beautiful wife.  (She is much better at snuggling than I am at racing bikes).  This year, I took a couple of weeks off after the State Championships, and told my wife I was going to do the Rapha Festive 500 to kick off my Barry training.  I rode 60 miles on Christmas day, and came down with a sore throat and upper respiratory infection the next.  I was off the bike until the 6th of January.  

Despite this setback, I still put in 400 miles during Janaury. That was more than I had ridden in all but three months in 2014. I continued to ride the "Gravel-We-don't-need-no-stinking-gravel" training route and the 20 minute intervals to the west, but I also created a new route. I drew a 20 miles loop that threaded it's way through the residential streets of my small suburb.

There were two advantageous features of this new route.  First, I was never more than 1.5 miles from home. So no matter how cold it was, if something went wrong, I could always walk home. That gave me greater confidence to be out in colder weather. Second, there were more than 1,300ft of climbing with three climbs that hit 19-20% grades.  To give it a point of reference, that's about the same amount of climbing in the 45 mile "Don't-need-no-stinking-gravel" route, whose steepest climb is the infamous "Wall" in Bull Valley which tops out at about 17% grade.  I dubbed it my "#secrettrainingride", and rode it at least once a week.  It wasn't a particularly fun route to ride. Most of the descents ended in stop signs or blind intersections. It was slow going (typically averaged 14-15mph) on my winter training bike, a 24-lb Specialized Tri-cross with full fenders. But it wasn't about feeling fast, it was about getting stronger by focusing on an area of weakness...climbing.

By the time Barry-Roubaix came this year, I had 1,156 miles in with 49,258 ft of climbing.  Less than 20 of those miles were inside, and close to a thousand of those miles were in sub-freezing temps.  There were a couple of "warm" weekends where sunshine drove the thermometer into the 30s and 40s, and we did make a trip to Georgia for Southern Cross (where it rained and was in the 40s).  So when the 10-day forecast for Barry predicted temps in the low to high 20s for the entire time of the 62 mile race, I knew I was ready.

Being able to exercise in the cold is not just about mental toughness.  Anthropological research on cold shows that the body's reaction to cold exposure changes with repeated exposure to cold. The below graph shows how skin temperature fluctuates when submerged in ice water. There's an immediate drop, then a rebound.  Repeated exposure reduces the time it takes for this rebound to occur, increases the temperature of the rebound, and increases the pain-threshold for cold.  The body also deactivates sweat glands to reduce the sweat rate and changes capillary blood flow, pulling them deeper to reduce surface heat loss.

It takes about 10 days of cold exposure (i.e., suffering) before the human body starts to adapt to the cold. My strategy was to be dressed lightly enough to be chilly during the 15 minutes (see above) as the temperature of extremities dropped,  but to keep my skin temp above freezing after the rebound.  Note, I did not say "to keep my hands warm".  If I wanted to stay warm, I stayed inside.  I wanted to finish my ride without doing any lasting damage to my skin or body, and to adapt my body and my mind to tolerating the cold.  My goal was to be ready for whatever Barry county Michigan has to offer in late March.  

On these early training rides, I would also carry an addition warm layer like a jacket and thicker gloves in a shoe bag for when skin temperature started to drop after the 80 to 90 minute mark. I could then add layers as needed mid-ride, or get my hands to actually be warm again. I have a good pair of winter cycling boots (Specialized Defrosters), and would always, on rides longer than an hour, use a chemical toe-warmer so keeping my feet warm wasn't much of an issue.  By the time February rolled around I was going out without the additional layers. I still carried with me a pair of gloves that were warmer than the uninsulated full-fingered gloves I started the ride with, but I rarely used them.  I knew exactly what I needed to stay warm for pretty much any ride in any conditions, and my hands were well adapted to the cold.  I also had my log from 2014. I kept track of my clothing choices, temperature, and weather conditions for every ride I went on in 2014. This served as a handy reference when things got cold again.  

Two days before Barry, I was kitting up for my last training ride, and was simultaneously trying to figure out in my head what to wear on that day (36 and overcast), and also what to wear on Saturday (20 and sunny).  I drew a small diagram on a piece of scratch paper, and jotted down my thoughts about what to wear at Barry so I could focus on that Thursday's weather. Morleigh Instagrammed a photo of it, which lead to a slew of comments and feedback on my FB feed. I chuckled to myself.  I was confident that I had my wardrobe, and pretty much everything else about this event, dialed in.  

So after I got home from that last training ride on Thursday night, we packed our bags.  We loaded the rental car on Friday morning, and set off for Michigan with only one thing on my race-checklist that not yet checked off.  

I needed a bike.  

My Asylum Muese cyclocross bike was still in the shop.  It turned out the list of damage from four hours of mud and grit at Southern Cross was more than just a cleaning. The headset bearings needed to be removed and re-greased, the bottom bracket had seized up and the bearings there needed to be replaced, and one of the rear wheel bearings had also seized up, snapping into pieces when Justin tried to remove it.  But the guys at Johnny Sprockets had it all put back together and looking as sexy as ever when we swung by to pick it up on Friday morning.  Unfortunately our friend Chernoh, who we also usually picked up in the city on Friday, had some personal matters to attend to and drove up on his own Friday afternoon. 

Mor and I arrived in Hasting at about 5pm local time. I picked up the packets for Chernoh and I, and then we and I went out on the course in the car to scout locations for her to shoot on Saturday. She handles most of the camera work at this kind of event because I'm generally focused on the bike. We ended up driving most of the first 17 miles of the course and getting a really good sense of the course conditions. The first eight miles are key, because historically-speaking the worst roads on the course (Goodwill Rd, S Whitmore Rd, W Sager Rd., and Otis Lake Rd) are all in the first quarter of the race.  On Friday they were in the best condition I had ever seen them in. They were hard, fast, and smooth with very little loose gravel on top of the frozen hard-pack. Short of an overnight deluge, it was going to be a very fast race. 

We followed Gun Lake Rd, down to Mullen Rd, and made our way back north to the east end of the Sager Rd climb. Rick, the event organizer, had sent out an email on Thursday announcing that this section of road, which we have bi-passed for the last two races, was once again "in play."  We parked the car, and walked back in to check out the course conditions.  There were some deep ruts, which could be dangerous if you got caught in one, but at every point of the climb there were at least 2 or 3 lines which were smooth, fast, grippy, and wider than many single-track trails.  In other words, course conditions were "I probably should have brought my road bike" good.  Or as Paolo from the Bonebell said "It was 62 miles of hero dirt".  

Morleigh and I scoped some shooting positions, I broke off a few branches and removed debris from the trail, and then we headed back to the car. I changed into my practice kit, and made plans with Morleigh to meet back at the hotel.  I road down Sager Rd and found nothing but smooth sailing on file treads at 55psi.  I turned around and climbed back up the steepest part to check traction on an ascent and had no issues at all.  I was happy with my tread choice, and made my way back to the hotel where we had dinner, met up with Chernoh, and went over our plans for shooting and riding.  

I was amped and struggled to fall asleep on Friday night.  Midnight came and went well before I was asleep, and Saturday morning came very early.  We were at breakfast when it opened at 7AM, cars loaded and on our way before 8AM. We arrived in Hastings, and immediately set out to get bikes ready, and get everything I needed for the beginning and end of the race out of the car so Morleigh could be free to shoot and not have to worry about making her way back to Hastings for my finish.  Our friends Rick and Mary Ann from Team Intent were kind enough to offer up some space in their tent, so I dropped a few bags there, and went out to warm up. As per usual I toured the town of Hastings a bit, and as I came back past the starting gate I was admonished by the timing official for the way I had wrapped my number plate around my steerer tube, and not to my handlebars.  Shortly there after I beamed with pride (and Morleigh with horror) as an announcement was made over the PA reminding everyone that they had to attach their number plate to their handlebars.  That was MY scofflaw announcement.  Despite the fact that everything I know about electromagnetism and RFID chips tells me that it didn't matter whether the tag was pressed closely to carbon fiber or not, I complied. During the race I did see at least two other people with improperly hung number placards, one wrapped like mine around the steerer tube, and the other hanging provocatively from underneath the saddle.  It turns out both were scored appropriately.  

It was about 9:35-9:40AM when riders started queuing up in the starting grid. I cut my warm up a few minutes short to grab a good spot. I did some leg-swings along the fence to finish my warm-up, and then made small talk and banter with my fellow competitors (one of whom was actually riding a road bike with 24mm slicks).  At 10AM when the leaders rolled out and we surged down Green Street I was in the fourth row, right where I wanted to be.  

As we were pre-driving the course the night before, Morleigh asked me, "How long are you going to stay with the leaders?"  I told her where I had fallen into no-man's-land the last couple of years (2013 = The Third Sister, 2014 = Hubble Rd climb), and that I hoped to make it a little farther than either of those two places.

As the peloton rolled out of Hasting, I held a good position on the left side, hugging the painted yellow centerline. A few careless gentlemen made the false assumption that both lanes were closed to traffic and were passing on my left.  They were quite startled by the first of a couple oncoming cars, and sandwiched in ahead and behind me.  It turns out the streets were not completely closed to traffic.  We made the left hand turn onto Cook and despite being "unleashed" continued to roll at a reasonable pace up the pavement.  It was not accidental that I was on the left side of the peloton because in past years, once we hit Cook Rd the field has started to rotate clockwise because no one wanted to pull. When I was on the right or in the middle, I found myself pushed further backwards than I liked as we approached the first Sister.  This year as we came upon the "Pavement ends" sign, and the right turn onto Yeakley Rd, the field was still rotating clockwise, and I found myself in a novel position.  I was within the top 10, and had an opportunity that I had never had before.  So I did what any mid-pack cat 3 would do, I attacked.   

With a few hard pedal strokes around the right hand corner, I was in the front of the field, surging downhill, and was the first rider of the day to hit gravel.  For a brief moment in time, for the first and possibly last time in my life, I was winning the whole damn thing.  If only I could have held on for another 60.5 miles.  (Spoiler alert - I couldn't). 

Unfortunately the course turned uphill.  My 150m gap evaporated into nothing, and the entire field exploded past me and up the first Sister.  But not quite.  It was a combination of me being a little bit stronger than in years past, and the field being a little bit more reserved than in years past. I was able to keep up with the leaders over the first two sisters staying solidly in the top quarter of the field. As we crested the second Sister, my legs were burning, and I didn't know if I would be able to hold on to the leaders up and over the Third Sister. I coasted down, took as many deep breaths as I could to slow my heart rate, and then got ready to give it everything I had left to hang on.  

And then two miraculous things happened.  First, instead of getting out of their saddles and hammering, the leading edge of the knife blunted.  It seemed that everyone sat down and started to spin, forming a shoulder-to-shoulder line across the width of the road. It appeared that no one wanted to take the lead up the hill into the NW wind. This allowed me the moment I needed to get my legs underneath me and hold onto the field for a while longer.  Second, David Lombardo did what I can only dream of doing. He attacked, and held it for more than a few seconds. (Spoiler alert - for 60.5 miles).  

I made it over the Third Sister with the leaders.  That was a major personal victory for me.  The field was starting to get dangerously strung out at this point, so there was no time to celebrate. I stood up into my pedals, and flew down the next hill making up spots and trying to reattach myself more solidly to the core.  When we reached the next climb up Hubble Rd, either I was stronger than expected, or the field did not attack as hard as in previous years, but I was able to keep the elastic from snapping once more. I remembered from last year, that when I crested the hill on Hubble Rd., I could see the whole lead pack had already made the turn east onto Goodwill Rd. This year the leaders were just 10 second in front of me on the descent, and there was a lone rider heading east on Goodwill Rd.  I didn't know who it was at the time, but David Lombardo was so far out in front it didn't seem possible that he had even started with us. He looked like some Pro out on a training ride who just happened to be using the same roads.   

It's not that I wasn't hurting, or that I didn't lose time on that climb, but all that mattered at that moment that I was still close enough to reel myself back on during the subsequent descent.  There ahead of me I recognized a kit similar to one of my own. "Is that Brad M?" I yelled as I pulled up next to him. He said that he had been trying to catch me since the start of the race. Funny because I had been trying to catch him for a few minutes.  He passed me on the 3rd Sister and didn't realize it.  

For the next six miles the field hummed along as a massive body of 60 some riders strung out over 20-30 seconds. As previously noted, this was the part of the course where for the last two years the ruts and potholes caused a massive loss of water bottles and the fields to shatter into tiny groups.  This year, the road was smooth. There was no brake-checking to create a gap for the lead 10, we all hummed along as a giant mass.  My wife cheered and snapped photos as we made our way past a small pond on Goodwill Rd.  David Lombardo had been through 35 seconds earlier.  

Don't get me wrong, this mid-pack Cat 3 was still working hard, but not nearly as hard as in the past two years when I was already in no-man's land by this stretch of road.  Then I was reconnecting with teammates and trying to form some sort of chase group with shellshocked survivors. This year I was flying with the leaders with a big stupid grin on under my Cold Avenger Pro.  We were going so fast that when we turned north on Otis Lake Rd, despite the 5mph wind from the North, the leaves were blowing to the north, being sucked up in our wake as we went by like a semi-truck howling down the highway. But all good things must come to an end, and so to came an end to that free-ride.  When we made the left onto Gun Lake Rd, we also approached the biggest climb in the race.  It was here that the field attacked, and despite a valiant effort, out of the saddle pushing a big gear, I hit the wall, the rubber band snapped, and I lost contact with the leaders. But all was not lost, there was still 49 miles of racing to be done.  

So I grouped up with another Chicago native, Paul H from Jus de Orange, and someone else I didn't know, and we struggled up the climb together. There was another threesome about 20 seconds ahead of us, and their was a collective understanding that it would be better for everyone if we could catch the group and form up a chase group of 6 of us.  It took a few miles of effort on pavement, but once we hit the gravel again, we caught up and started rotating through as a group of 6. We were all shellshocked, and took turns pulling, but the leaders quickly faded into the distance. We saw them for the last time when we made the turn onto Gun Lake Rd. They disappeared around a bend and were gone for good.  So we focused on recovering a bit, getting our legs back under us, and mentally preparing for the infamous Sager Rd climb.  I had just been there yesterday, but it had been a few years since I've actually ridden up it (2012) so I had kind of forgotten how short it is. As previously noted the conditions were really good, so the whole thing went by in a flash.  I remembered to say "Hi" to my wife as we blew by, and she cheered us on from behind the camera lens.  

Morleigh captured photos of more than a few riders laying in ruts, but there were no real issues in our chase group.  I pulled to the left when someone bobbled, and attacked to keep us moving, but the six of us were still pretty much all together by the time we turned right on McKibben Rd, and we had even picked up a couple more refugees.  We were a group of eight now in what may have been the second or maybe third chase group.  

As we crested the top of the hill on McKibben Rd I found myself having this conversation in my head.  

"Congratulations!  You've made it over all of the big climbs in this race." 

to which another part of my brain replied.  

"Hey idiot.  You forgot about the Killer." 

._.

But I was with a group of eight strong guys, and as we descended on the flats I suggested, and got concensus, that we set a moderate pace on the way to the Killer, re-group at the top, and then start to hammer in an organized fashion.  So that's what we did.  We kept a good pace, but were not flogging ourselves as we made our way towards the Killer.  I kept looking back for chase groups, and there was no one in our rear view.  That was the second sign that I was having a good day. In the past two iterations of the Barry Roubaix, the leaders of the second wave had passed me just after making the turn onto Mullen Rd. I had never made it to the Killer without having been absorbed by, and subsequently dropped by those ladies,  gentlemen, and occasional single-speeder. 

When we reached S. Head Rd., we slammed into the middle of the 24 mile racers making their way toward the Killer. Now that we weren't alone, the 8 of us picked up the pace a little bit, making our way alongside the long line of Chillers.  There was some definitely some "make way for the leaders" swagger as we hit the base of the steep climb, and we all were out of the saddle trying to put on a good show. Secretly in the back of my mind, I was just hoping that they would wait for me a bit at the  top.  It turned out that I was able to hold my own with the group I was in.  We were spread out a bit, but I did not get dropped on the Killer as I had in the past.  Another sign that things were going well.  We re-grouped at the top, and were catching our breath on the way down Head Lake Rd, when a new rider pulled past. First one, then two, then three.  I recognized Chris Lombardo, and I called out that it was the leaders of the second wave, and that we should grab on if we can.  We had made it past the Killer before being caught.  Yet another good sign.  So I did what I did the previous two years, I tried to grab on to this group and hold on for as long as I can.  Then something strange happened.  They sat up.  

At first, it was great.  Here I was holding with the leaders of the second wave.  The year before I was only able to do that until the first hill, and then I was unceremoniously shot out the back. This year, we were going at pace in which I could even muster the oxygen to mutter a few words to the guys I knew.   I said "Hi" to Chris Lombardo, told him David was looking strong when I last saw him (although I didn't realize how strong until after the race). I said "Good day" to Lucas Siebel who was up front doing major work on his SS.  But when we hit Cloverdale, and my heart rate dropped into the low 120s that I started to get a little worried.  The 40plus guys weren't concerned about it, but I was worried about being caught from behind by other riders from the first wave.  If they could catch onto my gravy train, it could cost me places at the end of the race.  I decided to take matters into my own hands, and moved to the front to start trying to pull things along.  Faster would be better.  So I moved to the front, and started to do what I thought was a little bit of work to pick up the pace.  When I turned around again, for the second time in the race, I was 200m off the front of a large group and no one was behind me. No one ever takes seriously the attack from the mid-pack Cat 3.  At that moment, I probably just should have put my head down, and gone as hard as I could.  Instead, I soft pedaled into the next hill on Cloverdale Rd and got soaked back up by the surging field, and then struggle to recover as the field then decided to attack.  

Even though I was very worried about hanging on, I was able to keep connection with this now large group of 40-50 riders.  About this time, in almost as impressive fashion as David Lombardo, Paul S from the Pony Shop took of on a flier of his own.  He pulled away on climb, looked back at the top, and then he was gone.  He opened up a gap and before long was completely out of sight.  Meanwhile, as I had feared,  another group from the first wave had caught us, as Andrew H from Tuxedo Thunder and a few other new riders started to mix into this peloton.  It was what it was, and all I could do at this point was hang on.  I worked when I had to work, I recovered when everyone else was recovering.  In other words I played the game that is road racing.  

I continued to take the Salt Stick capsules off my handlebar one by one, every 45 minutes to an hour, continued to sip from my tube of homemade energy gels every 20-30 minutes, and drink nutrient-laden water as much as I could.  Thankfully the temperatures rose above freezing by the mid-point of the ride, and the sunshine was quite pleasant so the more relaxed pace did not equate getting cold it could have.  I could feel that my belly was a little cold, but my legs, arms, fingers, head, and face were comfortable the whole race.  I could feel how much a difference the Cold Avenger Pro made whenever I pulled it down for nutrients.  It also kept a lot of road grit out of my mouth.  It is still the best piece of winter cycling gear I own.  

There was one weird thing that kept happening during this part of the race. Every once and a while I would get the feeling that I didn't have sunglasses on anymore.  I'm not certain if it was the cold, the grit, or the lack of oxygen in my brain, but a few times I instinctively reached up to the back of my helmet to grab them and put them on, and then realized that they were still on.  

The second half of the Barry course, the part after Cloverdale, is perpetually fuzzy in my mind.  I have always had a Garmin on my bar so I knew where the turns were, but I was never zoomed out far enough to know exactly where we were on the course. There were certain places that were familiar, certain climbs I recognized, but I couldn't really point to where they are on a map as I can with the features from first half.  The Three Sisters are right here, the Killer is right there, and this is Sager Rd.  The second half is always a blur.  This is the spot where Chernoh rode away in 2012.  This is where Mike Palmer passed me.  Here is where I pulled away from Joe last year, but I couldn't point to any of those spots on the map and say "this is where X happened".  That blur was even fuzzier this year because of the disorientation that comes from riding in a pack.  It requires such attention and vigilance on the immediate surroundings, the beautiful scenery gets lost in making certain that wheels don't overlap and that you don't fall into a pothole that everyone else swerved around.  

It was like that until mile 48.  We were coming up on one of my favorite descents, and again the field was sitting up, just coasting down the hill at 18mph. At this point in time, the yo-yo efforts were starting to get to me. I much rather prefer to ride how I train.  Set my heart rate at 155-160 and keep it there. This fast-slow-fast pacing was not to my liking, but I kept reminding myself that on average I was going faster with less effort that I would be able to alone.  But we reached S. Broadway St., and were coasting down one of the largest descents, and people were braking, I had to do something. I moved to the left, took 5 hard pedal strokes, got my speed up to 30 mph, and then coasted the rest of the way down for 3/4 of a mile.  Again, the field did not follow, and I opened up another gap.  I didn't do it to get away, I did it because I really like going fast down that hill.  It's one of my favorite descents on the course.  It turned out to also be my last hurrah with that group, because over the next two hills, the field surged just as my energy was waining.  There were a couple of really steep punchy climbs, and I didn't have the legs left to cover the attack.  I found myself alone in no-man's-land again at mile 50.  I didn't really think that I had kept my goal of finishing in the top 50, but I was not giving up.  There were still hundreds of riders behind me, all of whom wanted my spot.  I took a few hundred yards to compose myself.  I tried pulling a fig-bar from my stem-bag, but when I put it in my mouth it was frozen and too dry to chew and swallow.  The feeling of solid food in my mouth at that moment turned my stomach, so I spat the un-masticated bar onto the gravel. I ripped the last salt stick off my handlebars, finished an energy gel, and yelled in my mind to the riders behind, "If you want this spot, come and get it", and attacked the emptiness.  

I was in no-man's-land, but I wasn't alone.  I could see some other riders ahead, so I put my head down and started to try to reel them in.  When I passed the first one, I encouraged him to "Grab a wheel" as I went by, but he wasn't in a position to do so, and I continued on alone. At mile 51 I passed my wife, dropping an empty bottle of nutrients, so I could take a bottle of water out of a back pocket and actually start to drink it.  Riding in the peloton had prevented me from being able to comfortably and safely make a seat-tube to rear-pocket bottle exchange.  Seeing wife allowed me the opportunity to jettison an empty fuel tank, and re-hydrate.   

There was a group of three riders, including Paul H from Jus de Orange, just 14 seconds ahead of me when I dropped this bottle.  I kept the ax to the grindstone and caught up with them in the next couple of miles.  There were just a few more punchy climbs between mile 55 and the finish. We separated a bit as I blew up on one of them, then came back together as someone else blew up on the next.  When we hit Quimbly Rd, I knew we were close to the finish, as we crashed into racers from the 36-mile and 24-mile race.  There was a definite jolt of energy that came from knowing, even though we weren't with the leaders, we had ridden twenty more miles than these these folks, and were in exactly the same place.  We could also almost smell the last stretch of pavement that lead into town.  In my head, I was already hardening up for the last few miles.  There was going to be a battle amongst the now five riders who were clumped together, and I wanted to win that sprint.  The game was on. 

We took turns pulling, continuing to rotate, and even as we approached the final climb into town no one was able to make a decisive move.  On the descent, I took some hard pedal strokes into the lead and then started to coast and recover for what was certainly going to be a final sprint. Paul H pulled around me, and tucked into an aero position, and I glued myself into his wake.  Then disaster struck.  Clank! We hit an invisible pothole, and it drove my rear tire into my rim, cutting my tube.  Within less than a second the tire was completely flat and I was riding on just the rubber + rim.  What do I do?  In my head I immediately started to do the math. I was less than a mile from the finish. It would take 5 minutes at least to change the flat. This video flashed in my mind.  

The plan of action became clear.  

It's only a rim.  Ride until you can't ride, then run until you can't run.  

So I rode.  Needless to say, the rear wheel did not corner well, and handling was sketchy at best.  I was able to moderate my speed through the four 90 degree corners and continue riding in.  I was so gentle and smooth with my lines that I did not even pull the bead off the rim.  Unfortunately there was no glorious sprint to beat Paul at the finish.  I got passed by a guy in the final 100m, but I rode across the line in 62nd place with a time of 3:15:23.  It was less than 3 minutes off my personal best, which was set in 2011 when it was 30 degrees warmer.  

Paul H finished 60th just behind Andrew from Cyclocross Magazine at 3:14:40 and 3:14:41 respectively. So I figure the flat tire only cost me about 43 seconds and maybe three places at most.  Had I stopped?  One minute would have cost me 10 places.  Stopping for 3 minutes would have cost me 17 places.  I carried my bike back to the Intent tent, changed the tube, and then went and did my cool down.  

As previously noted, it was not my best time at Barry, that was set in 2011 at 3:12:xx, but it was my best overall placing. Perhaps the biggest win was that I was able to finish the race without cramping.  Yes, I got tired, got dropped, but not because I was cramping.  It feels like I'm starting to get the hang of this endurance stuff.  

That's good.  Because my first 100 mile mountain bike race is only 3 months away. 

The triple double - Part 2

It was a short week. I worked on Monday and Tuesday, and Wednesday morning we loaded up the car and headed north towards Hayward.  We stopped in Madison for lunch at a cute little cafe called Manna, Wisconsin Dells for shopping at the outlet mall, and in Eau Claire to try on cowboy hats and have an Orange Julius.  I have two sets of Uncles and Aunts who have houses on the same Lake southeast of Hayward, and we met both of them for dinner at a small bar/grill in Stone Lake.  We went back to Del and Nancy's cabin, and settled in for the night. 

The next day we slept in late, exhausted from the drive.  I got up and started to get ready for a training ride, and Morleigh wanted to use that time to explore Hayward.  She had never been.  I spent some time staring at maps, and found what appeared to be a lovely 37 mile loop that headed in roughly a square, 9 miles south, 9 miles east, 9 miles north, and 9 miles back to the west. When I set out at 1pm it was very cool, about 30 degrees cooler than my last ride. It was certainly a shock to the system. 

The ride was beautiful. I had found some abandon roads that run parallel to the new highway. The road was cracking pavement and the trees were overlapping over the road making a lush green tunnel.  On one section I startled and immature bald eagle from a perch in the tree, and he swooped down in the tunnel, a bit of flesh dangling from his talon, and he flew down the tunnel slowly ahead of me about 15 ft off the ground, and maybe 50 yds ahead.  He let me follow him closely for maybe 10 seconds before finding a gap and swooping up out of the canopy. 

The stretch of the route running east was on a bicycle trail which was a converted rail bed.  The gravel was wet from the previous night's rain, and slow going.  It was simultaneously rough from the large irregular stones, and soft.  The lubrication provided by moisture allowed the wheel to sink in deep.  It was rough going. Eventually I got tired of slogging through the wet and mud, and jumped back off the trail onto the highway.

The north leg was notable only for the unexpected glacial moraine that I was climbing up and into. The first two legs paralleled rivers, and were cut flat, but the third leg scrambled up, and up, over some steep undulations.  My path back west was meant to be my prep for the Fat tire fest, a long gavel fire road that cut horizontally across the Lacout Orelles reservation.  The ground continued to undulate, but the net was definitely downhill as I headed back west. I was making very good time until I dropped down one steep hill into a wide flat valley, maybe a mile from end to end, and saw the road disappear under a tranquil blanket of water.  As I looked ahead, wondering how deep it really was, I could see along both sides of the road the tops of the vegetation growing on the margins of the road.  It was about knee high grass and shrubs, and looking at the topography of trees and the adjacent hills, I felt pretty confident that the water was at it's deepest 18-20 inches.  The water was clear, but had the color of cherry cola from by the vegetation and mineral content. I could see the gravel as I approached the edge of the puddle so I kept rolling slowly on my bike. 

Eventually I pulled out my camera (while riding) got it out of it's waterproof case, and help it in one hand as I continued to ride.  The scene was surreal, and the video captures some of that.

I had to dismount in the middle of the video because the top of the water was finally approaching the bottom of my bottom bracket.  I know the bearings are sealed, but I have learned from past misadventures that "sealed" is not "submergable". The water was cold. When I got to the far side my feet were numb, and there was a car approaching from the far side of the lake.  I stopped to wave him back, and then continued on my way.  I made it off the fire road without further incident, and onto another road which was a little more "improved."  It was still gravel, but wider and more recently graded.  As I rolled over the top of a random hill I saw a black spot along the should of the road.  I immediately recognized it as something out of place, something different.  I had a feeling I knew what it was so I started to reach for my camera so I could take video as I rolled past.  As soon as I got my hand back, to my rear pocket a car, the oncoming car I had seen since leaving pavement, rolled over the next hill.  Sure enough, as the car approached the black spot on the other side of the valley it turned an ran back into the woods.  The clear and distinct profile of a black bear lumbering into the foliage. 

I returned back to the Cabin, and shared my accomplishments.  My wife had a great time exploring Hayward, and we grilled out dinner with my Aunts and Uncle's again. 

Friday we spent the day resting, and preparing. We went to town and did some shopping for some vital clothing I was foolish to leave at home including warmer socks and knee warmers.  We then made our way out to the course, and drove the route from Hayward to Cable, so I could get a sense of what lay in store, and so Morleigh could get a sense of where she wanted to stage herself for photos.  We found many of the fire roads onto which the course had been re-routed, and actually were able to drive a significant amount of the course. We ended up at registration, got my number and our media passes, and headed back to the cabin.  We stopped at a very nice restaurant (we even got a relish tray and a candy dish to bookend our meal) on the way back to the cabin, and then made final preparations and went to bed.

The alarm was set for 4:15AM.  We woke up that early so we could head into town and place our bikes in the staging grid when it opened at 5AM.  We arrived in town at 5:05AM and there were already a few bikes queued up.  We flipped Stumpy upside down, and then tried to figure out if we were going to stay in town, or head back to the cabin.  We ended up heading to the Norske Nook, a local Norwegian-themed restaurant, and sitting in the parking lot for 40 minutes snoozing waiting for them to open.  We had a nice breakfast, and chuckled to ourselves when we overheard the group at the table patting themselves on the back for being up so early, and how no one would have their bikes out when they went to the starting grid after breakfast.  We finished our meal, and headed back to the starting line.  The sun was coming up, and the area was starting to bustle with activity. Morleigh grabbed the camera, and I ended up helping some of the volunteers hang banners over the staging area.  Eventually it was close enough to the start of the event to start warming up. I had put my mountain bike in staging, so I used my CX bike to warm up. I got some funny looks and questions about my choice of ride, but assured everyone who asked that I had no intention of riding the course on a cross bike. 

The last half hour passed quickly.  The ghost bike patrol started their work at precisely 9:30AM and the no-rider bikes at 9:45AM. At 10AM the cannon sounded, and we were off.  I wish there was more of an opportunity to savor that moment, of being in a throng of 2,100 mountain bikers rolling down a small city street, but my eyes and attention were laser-focused on the seething mass of wheels around me, avoiding, merging, passing, surging.  The first turn was to the left, then back to the right. The divided high-way split the field and I positioned myself towards the inside.  You can actually pick me on the areal drone footage, as I used the median as a highway to squeeze pass some people when it faded from elevated bank to just some rumble strips.  It was as soon as we turned that corner that the race was on. 

Within seconds we were flying east along WI Hwy 77 at 30mph. It was at least 5 minutes above 25mph. My eyes started to roll back into my head and my heart felt like it was going to explode.  There was a crash 3/4 of the way to Rosie's field, the start of the actual off-road part of the race, but it was far enough ahead of me and to my right that I was able to flow outside onto the shoulder to get around it without being caught up in it.  We made it to Rosie's field, I saw Morleigh taking photos on the right side of the course, and then I blew up climbing the hill. I wasn't done racing by any stretch of the imagination, but I definitely settled into a pace heading up the hill that was slower than the group I had been riding with. I lost maybe 50 or 60 spots as riders swarmed up from behind. Once we made it into the more undulating part of the course I was able to recover and match speed with the field I was riding with.  The big concern was a course re-route at mile 4-5 around a large puddle that race organizers warned could cause bottlenecks.  I was hoping to get there before the masses piled into the narrowing and jammed up.  We didn't have any issues, the field had already narrowed into a single file line by the time we hit the puddle, and we navigated around it without issue. 

A few miles up the road, at mile 6 we made it to the first road crossing, and re-routed out onto the long stretch of gravel.  At this point, two things happened.  First, my lungs started to "wheeze" as they are sometimes prone to do when exercising in cold air, and second my friend from SpiderMonkey, Johnny5, came up on wheel.  He said "Hey, grab my wheel and let's go", and I would have liked to gone with him, but I was reduced to nasal breathing trying to get my lungs to relax, and had no gas to accelerate.  He disappeared with a wave of other riders, and I sat in with the group I was with, hoping to hold on.  Only 31 miles remaining.  From here on in it was suffering and pain.  My wrist, which had been giving me problems for weeks, locked up to the point where I was doing descents at 20-25mph on rough gravel roads and couldn't grip the handlebar with my left hand.  My back too, started to lock up as it became the main shock absorber over the rocky and rut-filled fire road.  I was in a group of riders I did not know or recognize, except for Abby Strigel, who for some reason was racing on the back of a tandem with another woman.  We were riding in the same pack for almost 30 miles.  They pulled ahead at times, and dropped chains and fell back, but we spent a lot of time near on another. 

The big obstacle of the event is the infamous Fire-tower climb.  The trail jumps 211 vertical feet in .44 miles.  I hadn't seen the hill before, except on video, so I wasn't certain what it would be like.  It took me about 5 minutes of granny-gear spinning, but I was able to ride the whole hill which in and of itself is an accomplishment and not a guarantee.  At the top of the hill they said it was all downhill from there.  They lied.  It turned out there were two more big hills to cross.  At this point though I was in survival mode, focusing my effort not on speed, but on continuing effort.  In the last few miles another group of riders caught up to me, including Kelly from Psimet and the rider from Higher Gear who finished 3rd in my category the week before.  I would have liked to hang on with that group of riders, but this is where being a first timer hurt me.  I didn't know the course well enough to appropriately ration my effort.  Could I really burn a match on this small climb, or was it the start of another big climb?  I wasn't certain so ended up being a little more conservative that I probably needed to be.  But as I was heading up what turned out to be the last hill, my quads started to cramp. I had managed my energy and sodium very well, and powered down the hill as the big-top tent came into view.  I was able to get back two more spots on the sprint to the finish, and was so happy to see my beautiful wife standing there at the finish waiting for me.  It was most definitely the best part of my whole day. 

The course modifications due to rain meant the course was shorter than it had been in previous years.  The official distance was 39.5 miles, but that must have been measured to the center of the course.  My Garmin only showed 37.5 miles ridden, in just over 2:25:54 which was well ahead of my goal of finishing within the qualifying time for my start-gate (2:31:00 - 2:46:00).  I was happy with it.  My overall place was 267th which doesn't sound all that good, until you learn there were more than 1,800 finishers.  The winner, Brian Matter, finished in a blazing 1:59 (first time winner was under 2hrs) and my friend Johnny was about 15 minutes ahead of me.  Despite the wrist and back pain, it was a great weekend. 

The next morning we were up early again, and on the road.  We stopped for hot chocolates and gas in Eau Claire, lunch in Madison, and in Lake Geneva to race.  The weather when we got there was amazing, the field was large and full of friendly faces, and it promised to be a great race.  My race was the last of the day, so we got to watch the Pro Cat1/2 women and single speeds battle it out.  Hey, there's Abby Strigel...totally winning her race.  Sadly, even though we spent most of Saturday together doing the same thing, I would not be winning mine. 

I had finished out the previous year very strong in the CCC, with low enough points to end up on the front row at staging.  I didn't get the hole shot, but was in 4th place as we rounded the first corner, and was able to hold that position through some of the early twisty turns.  But at the first slight uphill straight-away, the field started to surge around me.  A couple guys here, a couple guys there.  I made it over the barriers still in good position, but by the time we got to the bottom of the course, my inital salvo had been fired, and the long gradual gravel climb was once again my demise.  I couldn't put much power into the pedals, so I downshifted and spun my way to the top.  Meanwhile, the field surged by. 

But I knew it was going to be hard to come and race with less than 100% of capacity, so I just gave 100% of what I had.  I worked on maintaining speed through the corners, trying to get good lines and maintain speed.  I had settled into a position in the middle of the field, some riders in front that I was trying to keep up with, and a few riders behind that I knew I didn't want to catch me.  It wasn't a smooth race.  I dropped my chain twice.  The first time was in lap 3 while running up the hill after the double barriers.  The first lap I remounted quickly at the bottom and rode up, but didn't have the legs to do that every time.  I don't remember what I did to dislodge my chain off my front chain ring, but I did remember, while racing, about a cyclocross clinic that started by having people practice putting chains back on by using the front derailleur.  So while running up the hill, I used one hand on the right hood to work the derailleur and the other on the pedal to turn the crank, and was able to pop my back chain on whilst running up the hill. 

The other time I lost my chain it was in the rear on the second to last lap.  I was battling with Steve Shaffer from Village Verdigris for 22nd place, and my chain jumped over my cassette into my spokes as I was powering up the hill. I had to dismount to get it out, and when I looked up Steve was gone.  I thought I might be able to catch him, but his last lap was something like 17seconds faster than his previous lap.  I could not keep up with him, so instead, I did the most foul and evil thing you can do when racing.  I started looking over my shoulder.  I started racing not to get the spot ahead of me, but to avoid losing my current spot.  But it had been a long weekend, so I attacked the hill, and spun my way through everything else.  The fellow behind me closed in to where he was entering the sand while I was leaving, but I was able to power into the finish without having to contest a sprint.  I took a few laps, gave some high-fives and atta-boys, showered, and went to Tuscan's for the second weekend in a row for a lovely dinner before driving home to wash bikes, unload the car, and get ready to repeat one more time. 

The triple double, Part 1

I haven't done much writing here in a while. As previously noted, the photography, getting and being married, working, training, and racing has been taking precedence over the writing.  However, I got some positive feedback on the blog this weekend (i.e., I heard tell that someone was actually reading it), so I figured it would be worth while to jot down some notes about my season thus far.

The official Chicago cyclocross season doesn't begin for another few days, but we at SnowyMountain Photography have been hard at work.  There was the trip to Hawaii, the climb up Haleakala, and a full road season.  Road you say?  Yes. This year instead of racing in the dirt and the hills of Wisconsin, we ended up staying closer to home and risking our lives in the circles of death that are American-style criteriums.  Those are all stories for another day perhaps.  This story is about September of 2014. 

I spent most of the summer ignoring the biggest race of my year, the Chequamegon Fat Tire Festival, a 40 mile point-to-point mountain bike race near my Aunts and Uncles's cabins in Hayward WI.  I applied for the lottery in February, and was selected with 2,100 other people for the full-length race.  Instead of doing what I should have been doing, and spending long hours on my mountain bike, I mostly ignored it.  I can count on one hand the number of times I pulled Stumpy off the wall and rode this summer.

But at the beginning of September it was time to get serious and start planning, and not just this weekend but the entire month.  Looking at the race calendar I saw something disturbing. With a little bit of planning, a few nights in a hotel, we could race six races in three consecutive weekends.  I broached the subject with my wife/coach/partner/love/soigneur/manager hoping she would talk me out of it, and instead she thought it was a great idea.  So we made a plan, and when the time came, we executed. 

My wife suggested we head out to a local park on the way to the gym, and she would spend some time video taping me going over barriers.  I took my bike on a quick loop around the park, and after 3 minutes of riding on grass I had that awful realization that nothing I had been doing for the last 8 months had done anything to prepare me for the start of CX season.  Maybe next summer I need to remember to pull the CX bike and the MTB off the wall a little more often and get dirty.  But I digress.  RelayCX was also a pretty big shocker to the old system.  I got a good placement on the LeMans start, and then proceeded to get passed by almost everyone on the first lap.  Sigh.  Thankfully my partner was able to battle back, and we ended up in 20th place (out of 28 teams).

I had a few days then to ramp up my practices.  I burned in a small loop in the easement behind our house, and rode laps until my wrist hurt so bad I couldn't go any more.  At the Night Bison, I started out hard and ended up alone off the front, and stayed with the lead 10 until an attack at mile 38 fractured us into 6 and 4, then 5 and 3.  I felt pretty good at the end of the ride having covered 53miles of gravel at an average speed of 20.2mph. 

On Saturday the 6th we headed out early on a drive to the first official CX practice in Sheboygan, WI.  The drive up was sunny and uneventful.  We arrived in time to see some of our friends from Chicago race in the women's and SS race, and to pre-ride the course a few times.  It was familiar as I had raced a WORS race in the same park a year earlier, although there was less single track and we stayed entirely on the south-side of the road.  The Eliminator (steep hill) was still part of the course, and as I tried to ride up it the first time, my chain skipped when I stood up to start putting down power.  I went to the bottom, and tried again.  Again my chain slipped. 

I took my bike to SRAM neutral support, and Ben hooked me up with a new chain.  After the next race I went back with my new chain, and tried again.  Less skip, but I still couldn't make it to the top.  I had to dismount just below the crest.  The rest of the course was bumpy and fast with a steep gravelly descent. 

As I was walking out of registration after my final pre-race trip to the rest room, I saw one of the promoters walking out the door with a piece of paper in his hand. I asked him if it was the start-list for the Cat 3 race. He nodded, and I asked him

"How many do we have?"

"Fifty-two"

"Wow, that's really good considering there were only 3 people pre-registered two days ago"

He chuckled.

"Just kidding, there are only eleven." 

"Finally!  A reasonable chance at a top-10 finish in a Cat 3 race." 

With only 11 pre-registered, I wasn't two concerned about staging.  I arrived as other started to gather, we were loaded into the start grid, and we were off.  With my explosive speed off the line, I got the hole shot.  Unfortunately with a gifted teenager or two behind me, I wasn't able to hold it for long.  Morleigh was taking video on what I think was the third lap, and I had already fallen back to sixth.  It was a close 6th, and although I was hurting, it felt like I could maybe recover for a few laps and still contend for a spot on the podium.  Then, on the steep gravelly downhill I got a pinch flat.  I could see the rock coming, triangular like a shark's tooth sticking out of the ground, but at 28mph there was no time to change lines and I hit it hard. I was completely flat by the bottom of the hill, and on foot for probably half the course back to the pit. 

Andy Swartz, father of Caleb who was leading the race, was in the pit and asked me what I needed.  I yelled "mountain bike", and he gave me a puzzled look.  I tossed my cx bike at him as I entered the pit, and ran over to my mountain bike, which I had the foresight to place in the pit. I grabbed my Garmin and went out to finish the race.  I was there for training, so there was no point in getting a DNF.  I was lapped by the leaders shortly after leaving the pit, but I couldn't grab back on and keep pace.  Besides, I had another race tomorrow, there was no point in turning myself inside out trying to make up an entire lap.  I finished the race DFL, 8th place out of 8 finishers with 3 DNFs. Not the way I wanted to start the season. 

We packed up that night and drove back south and stayed in Brookfield, WI.  The next morning we were up early and headed to Lake Geneva for WORS #10, Tredfest.  The goal was to get more time in the saddle, so instead of racing Cat 2 Sport as I did the previous year, I raced the Open Clydesdale category. It was three laps instead of two over a much longer course. This was the 4th year in a row that I was racing the course, so I wasn't too concerned with pre-riding. My main concern was the rock garden which we had been routed around in the sport category.  I got Morleigh set up on top of the hill with chairs, tents, and the cooler, and then went into the woods to run over the rock garden a few times.

I probably should have looked a little more before attempting it to find the right line, but I took a quick glance, and then rode up the trail to come at it with speed.  I made it all the way through the garden unscathed, but then as my wheel dropped out of the garden over the last big rock, my weight came forward and I tumbled over my handlebars onto the ground.  Thankfully I was clear of the rocks, so I landed on dirt and was uninjured.  I picked up my bike, went back to the top and tried it again.  The second time I made it through by taking a slightly different line, and keeping my weight farther back.  Lesson learned.  I didn't want to go all the way down, so I slammed on the brakes before I hit the chute, and ended up stopping and twisting on my front tire, pulling away the bead and losing about 20psi of pressure.  I walked my bike back to the tent, inflated the tire, and went off to warm up.  It was what it was, I was either going to make it or miss it.  The bast strategy, I was advised, was to let it rip.

My race started shortly after the pro race, and while we were in the starting grid we found out that one of the riders in my wave had put up a cash prize for the pro men and women who made it around the first lap the fastest.  Someone asked what we got, and Don, the legendary race organizer said, "Nothing, there are enough sand-baggers in this field already, we're not about to reward any of you for that."  I was certainly not sandbagging. 

When Don yelled "go" to start the race we surged up the hill.  The course started with a straight climb, then wound around and back down, and then up 2 more times in the first half mile.  The last climb was around the back and all the way to the top.  Like the rock garden, the top of the hill was reserved for the pro/comp guys so I had not climbed past the lift-tower before in a race. I was in the back half of my starting wave by the time we hit the second climb. I was able to make up some spots on the third climb, as many guys blew their wads on the first two, even though it's the 3rd that is most important.  At the top of the 3rd you dive into some really fun descending single track, and have time to recover and no time to pass.  If you're fast through the single track, and no one slow is in front of you, it's easy to make up time.  At the start I was only able to identify 4 riders in my category with the "C" written on their number plate.  After the third climb there were two in front and one behind.  I caught up to the first rider as we were heading up the Son of a Butch climb. I could see that I was faster than him in the single track, and he was very tentative through the rock garden.  So I made a move and passed him on the open double track, and tried to open up a gap.  3/4 of the way through the first lap, I started to realize how long 7 miles of single track really was, and I backed off the tempo a bit so I could actually finish all three laps and not blow up too completely. 

It was fun to be on the mountain bike, but neither my back nor my wrist were strong enough for the task at hand.  Both were very sore, and I had to back off the gas even more in the second lap to allow my back time to recover. At the start of the 3rd lap, I caught up with another group of riders, one of whom I recognized from previous years racing WORS.  He was hurting and in the open of the ski runs I could see him free-falling back towards me.  By the time we got to the final climb I was nipping at his heels, and I squeezed by him right before we entered the single track.  I had never beaten this particular rider before (and I really wanted to), so having him behind me gave me a little bit extra on the next two big climbs. 

I don't remember much else about the last lap.  I know I caught up to and lapped a few of the women in the open field.  I know that the top 5 in the men's pro race lapped me.  My back was on fire, my wrist hurt so badly that I was seriously considering going and getting and X-ray, and my arms were tired enough that my handling was getting very sloppy. There was nothing in my legs left to climb, so I spent a lot of time sitting down on climbs and spinning, something I rarely do.  However, I did not see any C's pass me at the end, so I was pretty certain that I had ended up 2nd in my category, and that is how I ended up.  We broke down our encampment, and headed south. 

Barry by the Numbers

I'm a data guy.

Collecting, analyzing, and making sense of data is my job.

So when I finished the 2014 Barry-Roubaix, and wondered aloud whether it was harder than it had been in previous years, I thought I would do what I usually do, and ask the data.

The chart below shows the relationship between time and placing for six editions of the race.  For this chart I combined the 40+ fields and the Open field in 2013 and 2014 because in the first four years they let the stallions run with the geldings.

There are a few things to note.  The first three years the race (2009, 2010, and 2011) was two laps of a 32 mile course.  The most recent three years (2012, 2013, and 2014) the race was added to the American Ultracross Series which required a single loop, and the race was shortened to roughly 62 miles.  In 2013 and 2014 the start was moved from Yankee Springs State Recreational Area to downtown Hastings, and registration limits were expanded from 1,500 to 3,000.

Thus we would expect that the first three races to be slower.  They were of a longer distance with more elevation.  In the last three years the number of registrants increased dramatically which influences the slope of these lines.  More registrants of similar ability makes for a flatter line.

The lines below clearly cluster into 2009-2011 and 2012-2014.  The first cluster had slower winning times (intercept with Y axis) and fewer registrants (length of the line).  The second cluster had faster winning times, more registrants, and tighter competition.

So back to the question, was 2014 more difficult of a race?

There are two ways answer this question by looking at the above graph.  If we draw a vertical line at any finishing place, we can see which race required the fastest time to achieve that place.

For example, in both 2012 and 2013, to get 50th place you had to finish in about 187 minutes.  In 2014, 50th place was a full 13 minutes slower at 200 minutes.  Across the board, at every placing 2014 was a slower race than the other two races held on the same course. So 2014 may have been faster than the all of the years in the first cluster, but it was much slower than the prior two years.

If we draw a horizontal line, we can see in which year would a given time lead to the best finish.     200 minutes would have put you on the podium in 2009, but in 2012 that would have gotten you one hundred and twenty fifth place.  In 2014 that same 200 minutes would have ended up in 49th place.

But what about individuals?  How did they fare year over year?

The chart below looks at the year-to-year differences in times for those men who competed in the Barry-Roubaix in back-to-back years.  The number in parentheses on the X-axis shows the number of men who competed back-to-back.  The graph shows the average time difference (green triangle) as well as the minimum and maximum differences.

There were only 13 men who completed the race in 2010 who also finished in 2009.  For these finishers, as well as for 2011-2010 the average time was just a little bit slower each year.

The fourth edition of the Barry was by far the fastest.  This resulted from both the unseasonably warm temperatures as well as the shortening of the course which also reduced the total elevation gain.  The average rider improved by 37.4 minutes from 2011 to 2012, and the every rider who rode in both years shaved some time off in 2012.

An interesting note?  The person who had the largest increase (51.3) from 2010 to 2011 was also the same person who had the most improvement (-79.8 minutes) from 2012-2011.  My friend Mike Hemme had a mechanical early on in 2011 and ended up walking back to the start shortly in the race to fix it, and ground out the rest of the race solo.  He came back in 2012 and finished 18th overall.

For the 97 gentlemen who returned in 2013, the course was less forgiving than in 2012.  The average time was 4.3 minutes slower, and for the 118 who returned from that cold-frozen mess, they found that the mud was even slower (by more than 13 minutes) than the cold.

The story for the women and singlespeeders is not as straight forward.  The top five women were slower in 2014 than in 2013, but things are not as clear in places 6 thru 25. The most important trend is the growth of the women's field from 3 in 2009 to 35 finishers in 2014.

Oh yeah.  And single speeders?  U cray.

So how did I do?  I shaved just under a minute off of my time this year and I'll say it out loud.  I feel pretty good about that.

The Barry Roubaix IV

For the last three years, the Barry-Roubaix has been, if not the beginning of spring, than the final last gasp of winter, the end of my personal winter.  It has been the marker on the calendar that has motivated me to continue training through the dark and cold, and keep building strength from the end of cyclocross season to the beginning of the next season.  This winter has been particularly brutal.  My training miles were down from 2013, in part because of a December bout of the flu, and a January respiratory infection.  However, the quality of training was definitely better.

Last summer, I moved from the city of Chicago's Northside to the Northwest suburbs, and over the course of last summer through group rides and exploring solo discovered there are places here where the earth actually bends upwards towards the heavens.  After living in a place so flat that highway overpasses count as elevation, it was a revelation to find these wonders of nature littered about the landscape.  I created a Garmin course that incorporated as many of these "hills" (as the natives call them) into a training loop.  I called it the "Gravel-We-don't-need-no-stinkin'-gravel" training ride.  It is a 43 mile loop with 1,700ft of climbing, with three sustained climbs at 12-24% grade.  In addition to some 2 x 20 minute intervals on a flat but windy course to the west, I spent a lot of time pushing myself to the limits in negative and single digit wind chills, and temps in the 20s.  So when March came, I felt I was ready to redeem myself after a sub-par performance in 2013.

As we did last year, my fiancee Morleigh, my close friend Chernoh, and I left for Michigan on Friday morning before the race, making our way to the Ace Hardware in Hastings to pick up our numbers, then checking into our hotel before heading out for a pre-ride.  This year we headed east from the hotel, and actually made it onto the western edge of the course, and we found a little bit of gravel to test out.  It was wet, but not too wet.  It seemed like it was going to maybe even be fast.

Then overnight it rained.  It wasn't a lot of rain, but with the ground already saturated from run-off, and the snow still covering most of the land, it didn't need to rain much.  We were however thankful that the precipitation had passed, and there were patches of blue in the sky as we drove into Hastings.  We had a volunteer parking pass because Morleigh was going to be out photographing the race for our little enterprise while I was racing.  I took about 7 photos before the race started, and she took more than 500.

In the past years, there has been a lot of hemming and hawing the morning of the race, trying to figure out what to wear.  This winter I've been using a spiral bound cycling daily log (a Christmas present from Morleigh's daughter Lexi) to keep track of the clothing and weather on each and every ride. This allowed me to sit down the night before the race and make a check-list of things to both wear and cary with me.  Having the list made getting ready in the morning much easier. I laid my clothes out in the hotel room, and everything else was packed neatly.  There was still the customary rummaging through bags in rented mini-van 30 minutes before the race started, but it much better than our first year when we rolled up to the staging with less than 30 seconds to spare before the race started.

I knew from past years that I wanted to be close to the front, so that I could at least try to hold with the leaders for a while, so I slipped into the starting grid next to some friends from Chicago who were near the front.  I found my teammates, Joe and Karson just a few rows behind, and we made plans to join forces somewhere beyond the chaos.  I finished up one last-minute task in the starting grid that I had forgotten to take care of earlier.  At SouthernCX I used electrical tape and cellophane to make a electrolyte pill dispenser on my stem.  For Barry I had grabbed some aluminum foil, and used the 10 minutes in the starting grid to put two extra electrolyte pills within easy reach on my stem.

Then it was time.  I took off my jacket and hung it on a sign where Morleigh would find it, and surged with the field to the starting line.  At precisely 11AM EDT we rolled off to the west, into the moderately strong northwest wind.  Before we got out of town, my teammate Karson had made it up to where I was, so I tucked in behind his wheel.  We were on the right side of the peloton, and as the field surged across both lanes, I heard someone wonder aloud if the road was closed or if the center line rule was in effect.  Shortly thereafter an oncoming pick-up truck answered that question, and the pack flattened back out into a single lane.  As we turned south on Cook, once again some riders started to push across into the lane of oncoming traffic, but for the most part we held tight in the right lane.  At this point I was in the top 50 riders.  When we made the turn to the right, back into the wind and got our first taste of gravel, there was not the explosion in the front that occurred the year before. The wind played a factor here, along with the soft ground.  No one really wanted to go out hard and pull big into the wind so early in the game.  So the field held together at least until we hit the Three Sisters.

I held on Karson's wheel as we powered up and over the first two sisters with the field.  The peloton was still thick around us, and with everyone's legs still fresh the Sisters again seemed much smaller than they did my first year when I had to walk up the third sister on my second lap.  At the base of the third sister I was still on Karson's wheel and had more momentum coming down the hill than he did.  I had to roll up on his left side to keep from running into him and just as I did he he veered to the left to avoid someone slower in front of him.  He drug my front wheel out from under me, and I had to unclip my right foot and step out to the right and push my body back up and over my bike to keep from falling.  Had we been going much faster I would have crashed and caused a major pile-up, but quick footwork got me back up and pedaling without missing a beat.

But something was wrong.  When we got over the crest of the hill I could feel and hear the my wheel rubbing on the left front brake.  I could see a wobble as it was rotating.  I had knocked it out of true on Karson's wheel.  I knew that I couldn't ride 62 miles dragging a front brake.  I knew that stopping now was a race-killer.  I was still connected to the lead peloton, and if I pulled over for even a few seconds I would probably loose not just the lead peloton but the whole field.  So I reached down and grabbed the end of the brake cable and disengaged my front brake.  It's a race, who needs to stop?

That was enough stop the rubbing, and I focused again on maintaining contact with the lead group.  We made the left turn on to Hubble Rd, and started up the second big climb, the one I remember as "the cow climb" because during my first Barry, the adjacent pasture was full of dairy cows enjoying the first green grass of spring.  This year it was full of snow.  Half-way up the climb I fell to the back of the group, and saw a small but dangerous gap opening in front of me.  I peaked over my shoulder to see see how far back the second echelon was.  There was no one in sight.  I was standing with my back to a cliff, and a long fall behind me.  I looked forward and hammered my way back onto the group.  As I passed another rider who was falling back, I turned to him and said, "It's a long way down" as I powered by.  I re-attached myself to the tail, but this climb had done it's damage.  The leaders had sheered off a gap, and the larger group was starting to fragment into a few smaller ones.  I don't remember exactly when it happened, but somewhere in the potholes and mud of Goodwill Road the leaders pulled away, and Karson and I were left with a few other stragglers in no-man's land, fighting to close a gap of a few hundred yards.  We started at this point to run into two unfortunate things, deep mud and puddles, and the stragglers from the earlier waves.  We started to fall further and further back.  When we reached the first section of sweet pavement we were maybe 400 yards off the next large group.

Karson and I joined up with a few other riders, and we started working together trying to catch the next big group.  We did a single file pace line for as long as we could, and some faster riders (P-B M from Half-Acre and Avi from Cutting Crew) joined us, and then pulled away from us on the long climb.  They were clearly trying to catch up to the next group, and Karson and I were both pretty cashed.  Once we made it over the big climb, we both decided to sit up for a bit and recover.  We could have tried to push onward and tried to close the gap on the group of 20-25 riders visible in the distance, but I knew that were mostly taking it easy.  We'd blow ourselves up just to catch back on, and would be dropped as soon they hit gravel again.  My suggestion was that we recover ourselves, and wait for the first wave of Master's 40+ riders who would be coming by at about the same time as we would have caught that wave.

My calculations were correct.  Right at about the 20 mile mark, just after we turned onto Mullen's Rd, the first wave of 40+ riders crashed into us from behind.  Karson was behind me, and when I found a gap in the line I snuck over and joined in at their frenetic pace.  I lasted about 4 miles before I got dropped heading up a small hill.  I turned to look behind me, to check on Karson, and he was not to be seen.  I was hoping he had grabbed onto the 40+ group with me, but he was not able to hold on. I made a slight miscalculation about how quickly we were coming onto the Killer, and sat up perhaps a mile too soon, but regardless that group was made up of small wiry dudes, and I would not have been able to keep pace with them up the Killer.  So I sat up a bit, and conserved some energy for the steep grind.

As some other riders noted, the Killer isn't really that bad in this new course.  It's not the steepest or longest climb in the ride, but it's name comes from the days when it was at mile 12 AND mile 44 of the original course.  The second climb was the one that broke many spirits, including my own.  On this day I was able to make it up the hill without breaking myself, even having enough energy to pull down my Cold Avenger Pro and smile at Morleigh, swerving in her direction asking for a kiss-hand-up.  She told me I was crazy and to keep pedaling.

I made it up and over the Killer, taking a moment to glance backwards at the top.  There were just a few red tags behind, and no group visible in front.  I was in no-man's-land.  I hardened my resolve, and thought back to the thousand miles or so that I had been grinding in the countryside.  It was preparation for this moment.  I put my head down, and pushed firmly into the pedals.  I continued to pass yellow and blue tags for a few miles, until we hit the turn-off when 62 milers headed south, and all others headed north back to town.  The road was crowded before the turn off, and like the first year, it was desolate after the turn.  There was a lone straggler ahead, and when I made it to the first corner I glanced back to the turn.  There was no one behind.  So I pushed onward to the south.  When I was approaching Cloverdale, I happened to turn again and glance over my shoulder.  This time there was a pace line of three men who were closing in fast.  Again I made a tactical decision to sit up and recover as we rolled into town, and when they came by I clicked the lap-timer on my Garmin and grabbed a wheel to see how long I could to the tail of this new tiger.

I did much better than I expected, holding that wheel for the next16 miles.  I was completely red-lined just holding, so as they rotated through I made space for each one as he came to the back and tucked behind the last wheel.  A few times I pushed to the front on the gravel and got encouraging words, "do what you can do", and made a point to get out in front on the pavement where I could push a big hole for them to recover in.  When we next encountered Morleigh hunkered in front of the van she hollered out that we were only a minute or so behind Joe, another of my teammates, and that we should go and catch him.  By this point in time I had lost all sense of where we were on the course, and even what direction we were headed.  I was putting everything I had into holding wheels, and couldn't even be bothered to flip over to the map-screen on my Garmin.  It didn't really matter where we were, I just needed to hold this wheel.  I kept repeating those words, "hold that wheel" in my mind over and over again.  We came up on Joe after making a right-hand turn onto a climb.  I hollered at him, telling him I was riding with a group and asked if he could grab a wheel.  He said he was pretty cashed, and to be quite honest, so was I.  The last few ridges we had climbed, I had stretched the rubber band to the braking point with my group of three, and I think they might have even been slowing down just a bit at the top to let me re-attach for a few climbs.  I decided to cut the cord and ride with Joe for a bit.  He was in pretty rough shape, so I did most of the pulling.  It felt good to be able to do for him what Chernoh did for me the year before.

So I rode with Joe for another 7 or so miles, until we pulled onto Broadway and two things happened.  First, being on Broadway meant that we were on the final leg of the course, and I started to hear the finish line whispering my name.  Second, we were on a steep downhill, and I got into the aero position and simply pulled away.  Joe told me that he was grateful that I pulled him for as long as I did, and that I could ride my race at any time.  So I rode.

I was in no-man's land again for few miles, and I was able to grab onto a few wheels here and there as they made their way past.  One fellow on a mountain bike asked me if I knew what mile we were at as he blew by.  For the first time that day, I flipped over my Garmin to check.  We were at mile 52.  Only 10 miles left to go.  Another group of three passed me, and I was able to grab onto their wheel for a bit, but fell off again before too long.  About 5 miles from the finish I was swallowed up by a larger group of 15 or so riders who were mostly from the second wave including the lead two women.  Once again I mentally committed to holding on, and was able to ride with this group all the way into town.  I was fortunate because I think everyone was hurting, and no one in particular wanted to take a big-hard pull into the wind, and into town.

The final approach to Hastings was new this year, and included a pretty steep climb on Broadway.  As we approached I mentally prepared to get dropped, but again, no one wanted to take the lead up hill into the wind, and pace slowed to something that was manageable for me.  As we approached the top, my legs finally gave out and started to seriously cramp.  As rolled over the crest, I grabbed a drink of water, and decided to do something foolish.  If I was going to blow up, it was going to be one hell of an explosion.  We all started to pick up speed as gravity took over, I dropped into my aero position and sunk my weight into my pedals.  I pulled out to the left and hammered for the bottom of the hill.  I don't know how many I surprised, but when I reached the bottom I peaked and saw that I had strung out the field somewhat.  The ladies surged forward along with a few men as we entered the first left-hand turn, and I decided to just completely bury myself in these last few block.  They were mostly 40+ men, SS, and women, but I didn't know how many Open men there were, and didn't want to lose 5 spots because I was afraid of to dig deep.

Shut up legs.

I maintained a spot in the front four or five as we turned left, then right, then right, then left, then right, and on the final left I was out of the saddle and sprinting for all I had.  The pain was intense as I fought through the cramps, but was able to maintain my position.  I gave a little celebratory bunny hop at the finish line, and that was it.  My fourth Barry was in the books.  I was smart enough to press "Stop" on my Garmin, but not smart enough to look at my time before clicking "Save".  I had no idea how fast I had ridden.

Thankfully Morleigh was at the finish line taking photos for just that reason.  We looked at the time stamp on the photo she took when I crossed the line, 2:29:34 PM CDT.  A full minute ahead of my time the previous year, and I had a feeling the course was slower this year.  I hung out at the finish for a while, congratulating and consoling friends, teammates, and strangers.  I felt really good about my performance, about my ride, and about my day.  It was about this time that I remembered 3 hrs earlier I had detached my front brake.  I looked down at my wheel, and discovered that my wheel was out of true because one of my spokes had snapped 3 miles into a 62 mile race. I was lucky to have been able to finish, much less had my second-best time ever.  The plan that Chernoh and I had to ride together never materialized.  He wasn't able to get a hold of that first wave, and spent the rest of the race finding packs trying to catch up.  Once he made it across the finish, we headed back to the mini-van and spent a few minutes recovering, then changing and getting warm.  We drove to the Waldorf Brew Pub for lunch, and then onto the highway headed back home.

Morleigh looked up results on her tablet on the way home.  I finished 67th in a time of 3:29:32.  The sprint had paid off because there were four of us who finished within four seconds of one another.  Had I sat-up and given up at the top of the hill I could have easily been back in 70th place.  Although it wasn't my best time, it was my best finish ever, and I managed to improve on my time from the year before under difficult conditions.

The details:
Nutrition: Two insulated bidons mixed with hot-water and my special mix of nutrients, plus 2 Salt-stick pills opened and dissolved in for electrolytes. One uninsulated bottle of water, and a "gel" with the same mix of nutrients and salt.  Two salt pills from my stem, taken 2hrs and 3hrs into the race.

Clothing: Craft Wind Stopper (ws) briefs, Craft tights, Craft Short sleeve ws base layer, Craft Long-sleeve ws base layer, Capo thermal speed suit, Capo short sleeved jersey (mostly for pocket-room), swobo arm-warmers, Craft beenie, and a Cold Avenger Pro.

Bike: Specialized 2013 Aluminum Crux, SRAM Rival GXP crank, front derailleur, SRAM Force shifters and rear derailleur, Avid Shorty Ultimate Brakes, and Fulcrum Racing 1 wheelset with Michelin Jets at 58 PSI.