MFG # 5 2014 Race Report: Be careful what you wish for

Guns for a Gunfight.  Giros in Vampire mode.

At the last MFG race I was lamenting that maybe I had changed to mud tires too early. Tubeless is great but tire swaps are messy.  I was hoping for a wet course to justify the installation of the mud tires. This week I got my wish.  It is a cruel God that grants our wishes.

I am an almost religious follower of the NOAA website and the forecast graphs in particular.  The graph shows on an hour by hour basis; the temperature, cloud cover, wind velocity, chance of precipitation and amount of precipitation per hour for your selected location.  My race was looking to be a slippery event starting the Tuesday before the race.  As the week progressed the variations narrowed but the predicted deluge remained the prediction.

With my Stan’s Raven tires (gravel/dry cyclocross) resting on a hook in the garage I had my only other cross tires (Kenda Kommando X Pro’s) installed.  I had purchased them strictly for muddy cross races and although they had a much more aggressive tread than my Raven’s they sure didn’t look as mud hungry as say, Clement PDX’s or Challenge Limus’.  A last minute search for something with more bite did not yield any results so I tried to embrace the Kommando X’s.

My training included some skills practice the Thursday before the race. It was bombing rain and I welcomed the chance to get some time on the bike in muddy conditions.   I went out just before sunset Thursday evening with a light on my helmet and rain falling on my shoulders.   I was feeling pretty badass riding in the rain (Rule #9) until I made it to the school where I planned the majority of my practice and found a team of ten year old girls practicing soccer.  I concluded we were all badass.  I discretely kept my potty mouth perspective to myself.

One outcome of that practice was that my disc braking wasn’t as awesome as it had been in dry conditions.  I swapped out my pads and installed some sintered pads that I think are made from metal asbestos, cancer and kitten bones. I bought them on the black market. They came in an unmarked bag. If I recall correctly they are made in Poland and are shipped using Hazardous Materials protocol.  They do, however, stop me very well.

With the race schedule both shuffled and starting four hours later than normal I packed the war wagon the morning of the race. I got there early and set up anticipating wind and rain.  I had the team sprayer charged, full of water and ready to spew.

The ground was soaked from a week of rain and over the span of four hours the riders chewed up the course and it transitioned from bumpy grass to greasy peanut butter-like mud. I checked my phone for the radar image and saw a mass of green and yellow that stretched from Vancouver to Corvalis bearing down on Redmond, Washington.  It started raining lightly about seventy five minutes before my race. Later the rain changed from a soft rain you could see to rain you could hear and feel as the skies opened up completely about ten minutes before the whistle for my race. This was going to be epic.

My time on the course before my race had only served to confirm the race would feature a lot of improvisation.  There were stretches of off camber that I could not ride. There was a puddle the size of my car that could not be avoided.  Even when pre-riding there were riders going down like drunken toddlers. This was my kind of course. 

The beauty of Cyclocross is the application of a rider’s handling skills, raw strength, conditioning, prior race experience and judgment combined equipment selection and preparation on a course that can be different not only from prior years, but from prior laps.  You can’t practice riding in forty degree rain on a muddy course in July.  There is an odd fragility to such a rough sport. I’ve raced at Marymoor a half dozen times and never has it been anything remotely like this.

Scott bombing it !!

I accepted my call up with joy and reverence.  I stood on the line still in my plastic jacket and thirty year old (1984, really) Nike nylon pants. I peeled them off at the last minute and was at least for the moment warm in the falling rain. 

When the race started my mind was blank and my start reflected it.  I quickly drifted toward the back as we made our way under the finish banner and onto the slick straightaway by the team tents.  Willard was cheering and ringing his monster cowbell.  Thanks. I hear you and appreciate the cheers. At the first sharp corner I could see there were still a couple guys behind me.  I needed to move up.

Through a narrow gate and we were onto a greasy straight with a slight off camber where I slid downhill and to the right without wanting to do so.  There would be a lot of “hook and ladder” riding this day. I kept pedaling and finally hit some steerable slop and was back on solid-ish ground.  My rear wheel was spinning out as I ramped up my effort. I shifted my weight back to keep traction. This was the beginning of fifty minutes of bike wrangling this day. A slick S-curve downhill (evil) and then a wicked trio of uphill, traverse left, then down, greasy right, repeat - slaloms that required a ton of perfectly timed power or you would either slide out or stall.  I had to avoid riders who did both.

A single high line that could be ridden with a constant and controlled pedal stroke was the only way to avoid sliding down and ultimately under the course tape.  Then we zigged and zagged on the velodrome infield, jumping barriers before exiting and hitting the off camber of death.

The carnage was everywhere and even on the first lap we were working our way through the back of the Cat 3 45 race field.  On the off camber of death there were two lines of riders. On top there were riders gingerly walking their bikes trying not to shoot down the slippery slope and below were riders who had slid down and were clawing back onto the course.

Mud is a many spotted thing..

In anticipation of such conditions I had installed wickedly long toe cleats that made my shoes look like vampires.  Using the vampires I dismounted early then I shot in between the two lines and passed a handful of riders.  I remounted and headed for the final off camber of glory which came just before the log obstacle.

There was a low line on this off camber that could be ridden if you kept your pedal pressure constant and didn’t get greedy.  Then a rutted cream cheese downhill followed by a 180 degree turn before the uphill with the logs.  The beer garden was positioned here so my log leaping was cheered by soggy mildly inebriated Cyclocross fans.

Remounting on the slippery slope after the logs was tricky and I felt I had a good solution of remounting and clipping in my downhill foot while using my uphill foot as an outrigger for the off camber downhill. I could hear fans yelling from the beer garden but the slick slope demanded my full attention.  On later laps I would catch a glimpse of beer hand ups out of the corner of my eye.

More zigs and zags and a final power straight and it was onto lap two.  I was working my way through the 45ers and catching other old guys in my category.

On the second lap I hit the post-infield off camber of death in back of a group of seven riders and emerged in front of them all.  I heard swearing behind me not because I had cut anyone off, but because the mud was almost like quicksand in that the harder you tried to go fast, the more you slipped and went down. My vampires helped me pass slipping riders and they didn’t like it. Welcome to Cyclocross.

The course was described by another rider as a greasy nightmare.  Riders were down everywhere and avoiding them was just one of the course challenges this day.  I dabbed multiple times every lap but didn’t go completely down.  My brakes were working which enabled me to control my speed with some confidence.  Instead of braking at the top of a downhill and hoping the brakes would grab about the time I needed to slow, I could wait and squeeze the levers when I needed to slow.  Sweet !

I kept working up and cursed my slow start.  I had some traffic issues and getting around riders when long mud sections had only one viable line hurt my lap times.  I was chasing Scott and found myself close to him on some parts of the course and losing contact on other parts.

It was now past sunset and the stadium lights illuminated the bombing rain.  The charcoal colored mud and my wet glasses made the darker parts of the course an unexpected adventure.  My HR was maxed and I was warm despite being soaked to the bone and caked with mud.  The bike wasn’t feathery light as it was carrying eight pounds of mud. I felt like I was doing well and knew I was well ahead of the racer closest to me in series points.  I would keep my sixth place call up for the final race.  Nice.

Despite my crap start I managed a top ten finish and was glad to be done.  The rain was still pissing down as I went back to the start line and collected the rain jacket and pants I set aside just before the start. I saw Brad warming up for his race and felt sorry for him. It felt kind of like I was seeing someone waiting for their execution.  I wished him well and looked away. As I got back on my bike to ride to the tent I realized I was already in my second race of the day, the race with hypothermia.  I was losing that race.

I wrestled off my sticky wet and muddy clothes then rubbed off the mud off my legs using a brown towel (smart eh?) and pulled on some dry clothes. The sprayer got the chunks of mud off the B2 Bomber and I loaded it into the war wagon.  Despite breaking a spoke, El Pirate snagged 4^th on the day and remains the point leader in the series.   That guy is my hero.

Adam came over and we compared war stories.  I was still freezing and wanted to get out of the rain so as soon as we broke down the tent I headed out wearing all the clothing I brought in an attempt to get warm.  I discovered my car heater was not working and I just gritted my teeth.  

Once home I attacked a hot meal Hottie had waiting.  Then I unpacked the war wagon and set up the tent, team flag, chairs, table and stools in the garage to dry off.  I hosed off the Bomber again with more water pressure and dripped some lube on the chain.  The bike would get more loving the next evening, but that was the triage for race day.  Then I pulled my muddy clothes out of my wet bag and hosed the mud off and dropped the soggy clothes into a bucket.  Then I dumped the bucket into the washing machine and put the shoes on the boot dryer.  Finally I got the hot shower I had been dreaming of for three hours.

My body ached everywhere.  My shoulders, neck and biceps were sore.  My feet and hands hurt. The mud wrestling had taken a toll. My legs weren’t too bad, but everything else was throbbing.  That was a race.  That was awesome.   This was a great feeling.  

I looked forward to looking back on this day.

As a footnote I started cleaning the Bomber Monday evening and found water and mud in places it didn’t belong.  Before I was done I ended up pouring water out of my frame, servicing my BB and replacing derailleur cables.  That was a race that will be spoken of for years to come.

Like it or not, I got my wish.

Dopers among us

Dope anyone ?

It has been over two years since the age of enlightenment that started with the publication of Tyler Hamilton’s book “The Secret Race” and reached a crescendo with the “Reasoned Decision.”  In the time since we have all accepted a truth we hoped against all logic wasn’t true.  The facts, circumstances, emotions and explanations remain complex and contradictory. 

It is clear that Lance Armstrong was guilty. It is also clear he was unfairly singled out. We must acknowledge that if they had a jersey for being the biggest narcissist he might have seven of those as well.  Why they stripped him of his titles while Riis and Ulrich kept theirs can’t be logically explained.  

In the so-called Golden Era of cycling the riders took amphetamines like they were breath mints.  They rode fast because they were on "speed" for crying out loud.

Kind of gives new meaning to the term "Hand Ups"

We now have a glimpse of what it was like back then and that pretty much everyone was indeed doing it, but I am so sick of hearing that explanation both from my lips and from everyone else’s that I could scream.  That argument doesn’t justify anyone individually, but it needs to be the context in which the individuals and their actions are viewed.  All of the riders who doped have their own stories, but in the end they did it and they also knew the rules.  It took a long time, but they were caught. 

I recently read an interview with one of the confessed dopers and he related that it seemed like the line between right and wrong kept moving (in one direction).  We all see the sign that says the speed limit is sixty miles an hour but when we find that everyone else is going seventy we join them without a second thought.  We see the doping as black and white but if we get a ticket for going sixty two miles an hour in a sixty mile per hour zone we would be outraged.  If sixty is the speed limit then sixty-two is breaking the law right?  Don’t give me that shades of grey bullshit.

Three. Three vials I would like. Yes?

 As recently as a couple dozen years ago every father spanked his son and that was as common as eating cornflakes for breakfast. Now the star running back for the Minnesota Vikings isn’t allowed to play because he spanked his son. What was perfectly acceptable for hundreds of years is suddenly horrible now. Looking at any behavior from a different time through the glasses of today typically yields very different perceptions than when viewed in real time. We always think we are smarter and more enlightened than we used to be.  We aren’t.

On the other hand I recently finished a workout and took off my Hincapie socks and realized I had only negative feelings toward Hincapie. I tossed the socks in the trash can and I have a hard time explaining why. I feel like George was the ultimate chameleon as he was all in with Lance then turned around and held himself out to be as pure as the virgin snow even wearing a white kit and riding for a team called “High Road.” Then when it suited his needs George dropped his friends and confessed all.  If George has principles he appears happy to change them anytime it suits the situation.  I just don’t want his name on my body. I once looked up to George. Not now.

Levi did it, Danielson, Zabriskie and VDV all confessed to one degree or another.  They all seem to be decent guys who did something really wrong when viewed in the harsh light of 2014.   Aggressive reporters, repentant doctors and guilty consciences have added dozens of European pros to the ranks of known dopers.  Let me know if you can find someone who stood on a grand tour podium between Lemond and Sastra that was clean.

Levi has a Fondo that predates his confession that does a lot of good in the community. DZ has both a commercial company and charity that he is connected with.  Hincapie is also appearing to give to the community while trying to make money from it. Lance is just trying to find a game of pickup basketball that will let him in and USADA won’t be happy until he is under house arrest and washing Tygert’s car on weekends.

Even the "good guys" look like murders with ice water in their veins.

How do you look at these guys and ignore the elephant in the room.  We can be accepting and have great conversations about everything but doping.  We can be swayed by these guys and their charm; but they still did it.

More than anything else I want to pretend it didn’t happen and just move the heck along.  Let’s just forget about it okay ?

No. Not okay.

Just moving on clearly hasn’t worked in cycling.  After the Festina affair all that happened was that doping changed from a HMO to a PPO format.

Just wait, I'll get a bunch more KOM Jerseys.  

Hey look ! Is that Morgan Fairchild over there?

I resent Travis Tygart and his relentless attacking.  I resent that Levi doped.  I resent that Lance broke my mother’s heart.  I resent it all and it made my beautiful sport very ugly. I would be so easy if we just forgave and forgot.  I’m okay to pretend it never happened. The problem is that we have done that and it didn’t work at all. It is what has happened time and again and the dopers kept at it.

This uneasy, unpleasant awkwardness is exactly where we need to be right now.  We need to look at the riders who did it and acknowledge them as human beings who made mistakes in a much different time.  We can’t forget that they broke the rules but we must also realize they have been punished for that.

I guess the lesson is we can’t just forgive and forget or it will never stop.  It does take time but we can forgive. We just can never afford to forget. 

The top tube truly tells the tale

Allow me to translate facial and body language.  

"This is everything.  There is no more."

When you line up for a race there are certain things an experienced racer can spot that reveal a lot about the other riders; none more than the top tube.

In the final minutes before the race starts you can’t stop yourself from visually sizing up your completion.  The untrained eye might consider things such as body type, leg tan, team kit, shaved or unshaved legs, facial hair or tattoos.  The bike factors into the equation as well and we often rush to judgment and dismiss the rider on the ten year old aluminum bike.

When I see a bike with a nasty top tube, I know the rider has come intending to do battle.  A top tube with dried drops or puddles from sweat or sticky drool that glistens tells me this guy has paid some dues in the pain cave and is ready to throw down the hurt when the gun goes off.  When those drips and streaks get a light coating of dust so they stand out they testify to the hurt that went into training.  Nobody does intervals for fun.  Intervals are so you can go fast when it counts.

This guy looks so ready his seatpost is getting excited.

When you see a bike with a nasty top tube, don’t question the rider’s bike maintenance habits but instead give a knowing nod to the rider.  While it is good to avoid being too judgmental, don’t even think about touching that nastiness.  Aside from providing a training and hygiene barometer, it’s just gross.

MFG #4 2014 Magnuson Park Results, Photos and report

Photos can be found here
Prelim Results can be found here
Final results will be found here
Series standings will be found here

Whew...

First Lap.  Not suffering yet.

After a one weekend hiatus we were back at it today.  A Sunny mid-October day means short sleeves once again.  When will we have cyclocross weather?

I had put on my mud tires ten days ago on the assumption it couldn't keep being dry any longer.  My Raven's would have been perfect today. Faster legs would have been perfect as well.  

Following a tag-team of excuses covering the past few weeks I pinned on my crinkled number 247 (which I can remember by thinking about Cyclocross 24/7).   El Chefe and I had a good warmup and after basking in the glory of my soon to be lost number four call up position we were off!

I slotted in at the back of the lead pack and was sitting fine as we hit the cement for a short stretch of pave'.  The gap opened and I tried to close it but it slowly grew. 

I'm hiding in shame...

The greasy downhill wasn't a problem but once on gravel I felt myself losing touch.  To look at a map of the course you would think it was all speed. Maps can fool you.  Aside from two short sections of pavement you had some gravel that zapped your strength and grassy sections that made it hard to keep momentum rolling.  The long (by cyclocross race standards) gradual climb was among the highlights for me as I was able to power up and over. 

I wasn't happy with my placing or my time.  What is ironic is that when I had my podium early in the season I put out 100% and finished third.  Today I again put out 100% but my 100% wasn't as good as it was earlier.  I was glad to have raced and left it all out there but I would trade it for a better result. I am hoping that the next three weeks will have good health and good training and the race results will be good as well. 

Steve and El Pirate. Bob (in fourth here) would win the race. 

2014 MFG #2 Race Report, Results and Photos

 Results can be found here

     Photos can be found here

         Series standings can be found here

El Pirate leading out.  Check out my low pressure...

For the second race in the 2014 MFG series we returned to where, for me, Cyclocross started.  Steilacoom is where I saw my first race and was instantly hooked ten mud-filled seasons ago.  A couple weeks later I was flogging myself riding a Craigslist purchased cross bike at Kelly Creek.   Riding was even more fun than I expected.  There was no turning back.

This time I lined up on my way-too-cool-for-me bike and even had a front row call up.  Hot damn! Ten years ago I didn’t even know what a call up was. My training has taken a bit of a dive which in hindsight I attribute to a combination of too much, too hard with not enough recovery combined with neglected nutrition and a heaping helping of ignorance and/or denial.  The result was a tired and likely borderline anemic Evo who didn’t bring a lot of power to race on a power course.

Taking the advice of El Chefe’ I had visualized myself having a good start and first two minutes as opposed to my typically having a half dozen riders shoot past me like I had opened a parachute following the opening straight. It kinda helped.

We had a long starting straight and when everyone reached terminal velocity I felt like I could go faster. I jumped into the big ring and moved into the lead.  That was easy. When a Fisher guy pulled up just ahead of me I was happy to follow him into the first turn.   I was down in the drops and wheel sucking. 

I took the turns fast and wide and was delighted nobody tried to chop me by going inside.  Later looking at the first lap photos I now know the reason was my teammate El Pirate was on my wheel and trying to pass two riders in brown has zero chance of success and a hundred percent chance of future regret.   

Evo, El Pirate..

I maintained second wheel with El Pirate in tow until we reached the climb.  This course featured a single sustained climb with the first half paved and the top half loose dirt.  As soon as the climb began six riders shot past me and pulled away.  WTF?

I couldn’t get going and looked at my HR and cadence to confirm I was redlined.  Nope. Not even close.  My HR was 20 bpm lower than I expected which surprised me.  I picked it up and held the gap and on the dirt portion I started to claw back some of the gap.  The loose gravel downhill was a white knuckle affair that featured a ninety degree left which was followed by a single track descent.  At the bottom there was a loose 180 degree corner that was where the difference between having disc brakes and canti’s was manifest.

Not only did I not close the gap on the leaders but I lost another place here when a rider had power and I did not.  I tried to accelerate and it didn’t happen.  When we returned to the grassy slalom my bike, tires, tire pressure and level of effort kept my placing intact each lap.  Then a real gravel section followed by a dirt road again once afforded my bike a chance to shine and I typically gained ground.  I managed to avoid the quicksand gravel that awaited you if you went wide when you hit the finishing straight.

This was a course that should have suited me exceptionally well.  The zigs and zags were more “Euro” (read faster) which suits my strengths and bike set up.  The long climb was a chance to power past weaker riders.  My discs allowed me to fly down the descents and still maintain control.  I should have killed it.  

I am not one given to constantly watching my HR during a race but I do look now and again.  Nearly every race I hit my threshold three or four minutes in and it stays redlined until the finish. The last two races I have been about 10-20  bpm lower which is very unusual for me. While I was still catching guys from the 45 plus cat I was passed by riders in my cat on each of the first four laps.

On my last lap I was passed early and took it back on the last quarter of the big climb.  There were riders on that climb on the latter laps who were blown up by the last quarter of the climb.  Riders who were struggling to hold a line and keep moving.  Although I didn’t have it in me this day I was able to smoothly go past those guys.

I could feel a rider on my tail on the downhill and I didn’t let up. Then I drilled it on the grass to open a gap.  When we hit the gravel road section there was a Fisher Plumbing guy a good ways ahead who was in my cat.  I looked down and to my surprise I was in the big ring up front.  I took the first of three corners pretty hot and came out of the saddle and powered into the next corner. 

The second corner had an island of asphalt with gravel before and after and I cruised over it all without incident. I was gaining on the Fisher guy who was still thirty meters ahead of me.  He made it onto the finishing straight and I could see him turning to look back just as I went behind the bushes that marked the corner and guessed correctly that he didn’t see me.  I went left to avoid the potholes then right to avoid the quicksand gravel and I hit the paved finishing straight in the big ring.  I cranked hard and pulled up on the bars such that my front wheel came off the ground for a second. Off day or not I was going for it.

By now the gap was twenty meters with just over a hundred to go.  My approach was drawing attention and spectators started yelling which alerted the rider ahead that I was coming.  I was flat out and gaining but not fast enough to know for sure I could take him.  He got out of the saddle and the race was on. I was now about ten meters and closing ever so slowly.  My quads were screaming and if he beat me, he beat me, I couldn’t go any faster.  He was digging but I was still closing.  With a grunt that transitioned into profanity he conceded as I pulled ahead and held it to the line to claim tenth place.

I carried my speed across the line and by sheer luck didn’t crash post race.  The Fisher rider congratulated me and I breathlessly retuned the sentiment.

El Pirate won and by so doing took over first place in the series standings.  Despite a subpar performance I am clinging precariously to fourth place in the series thus ensuring at least one more week of call up glory.

My Sensei has picked up on my exhaustion and has reduced my suffering in the near term to allow my hematocrit level to return to double digits. I haven’t yet taken to eating blood sausage for breakfast, however, my intake of eggs, beef, spinach, turkey, pumpkin seeds and vitamin C has risen sharply.

Next week we return to the gritty purgatory that is Silver Lake.  My hope is that the MFG version of Silver Lake will feel less like Lombard Street and more like LeMans.  Sadistically I also hope the sand will require running.  I am hoping a fresher Evo can lay down the hurt on his competitors.