Biased Blow-By-Blow - 2019 World Championship Road Race

Introduction

Bicycle races can be fun to watch. Sometimes, though, it’s like the Super Bowl … super boring because it’s a blowout. In cycling, this generally happens when one team (usually Ineos) dominates. Teams or riders dominate when they’re doing a better job of doping than the others. Announcers stand by and pretend nothing is amiss. I don’t pull punches like that … in fact, when I get frustrated I start throwing punches all over the place, practically at random. I haven’t had to do that lately, because … well, who knows, could the sport be cleaning up? It’s possible. Or maybe I’m sinking into complacency.

Well, I don’t have Ineos, or any other trade team, to kick around today because it’s the World Championship road race, where riders represent their countries instead. (At least, they’re supposed to.) But you can bet my coverage will be as biased and unprofessional as ever.  For example, I would love it if the defending world champion, Spain’s Alejandro Valverde, totally sucked today because he’s a filthy doper. So read on, for the “real” (i.e., my version of) the story.

2019 World Championship Road Race – Yorkshire, England

“Having a teammate would certainly help at the finish,” the announcer says as I join the action. His Antipodean voice sounds both sad and playful, like a character, Dumbeldork or whatever, from a Harry Potter book. So far I’m not hugely impressed with his tactical insight.

Well, our recent Vuelta a España winner, Primoz Roglic, is dropping out. He probably just showed up for form, to make an appearance, like those dead weight guys on your work conference calls. It’s frigid and raining here … at least half the peloton will drop out. The race is brutally long: 261 km, almost 162 miles.

“Is there a possibility of Peter Sagan winning a fourth title?” the announcer asks. Um, yeah, I think we can assume there’s at least a possibility.

Right now the entire peloton is together and they’ve completed the BS just-add-mileage point-to-point part of the race, and now face seven laps of a hilly circuit.

Wow, Philippe Gilbert (Belgium) is dropped! They’re saying he crashed earlier. I don’t need to admit this, but he was my top pick to win today, after he looked so good in the Tour. I guess I’m no oracle.

Nairo Quintana (Colombia) is with Gilbert, and I’m going to pose this question: “Is there a possibility of Quintana even finishing today?”

Okay, Gilbert is quitting. “Oh, dear, Gilbert’s dreams are over,” the announcer says lugubriously. “He’s crying like a little bitch, he can’t stop.” (I’m paraphrasing.)

I don’t know, Gilbert doesn’t look like he’s crying to me … he just looks cold. “He’s inconsolable,” the announcer goes on. How can he say that, when nobody is actually trying to console Gilbert? Speaking of inconsolable, I’m not super stoked with the footage today. We aren’t getting any feeds from motorbikes because the drivers and cameramen don’t feel like being out in the rain. Perhaps eventually their bosses will make them get their asses out there.

In 1986, the Worlds were in Colorado, and I had front row seats. I didn’t have a formal credential of any kind, but discovered that you could just sort of go wherever you wanted if you acted like you belonged there. It was cold and raining on and off, and I took shelter for a while in the American tent as rider after rider dropped out, joined us in the tent, collapsed into a chair, and bitched about what a grind that was. The only one who stayed in the race was Greg LeMond, who missed the final breakaway. I watched the finish from the roof of an RV parked at the finish line. It was glorious: Argentin outsprinting Mottet.

To get into the British spirit here, and because I’m lazy, I’m having PG Tips tea instead of coffee. Alas, it’s not enough to wake me up so I have to go fetch more. Don’t worry, there’s at least 90 minutes left and the peloton is still all together so you won’t miss anything.

Okay, I’m back. The announcer says there are “less than 100 riders left in the race.” I think he meant “fewer” but then these guys aren’t exactly liberally educated.

It’s a bit tricky telling who is who, frankly. I don’t get to see anybody up close without the motorbikes, and nobody is in his recognizable trade team jersey. The jackets obscure their numbers which doesn’t help. Meanwhile, anybody who gets a bike change doesn’t show up on the readouts that the announcers use, which challenges them. I’m also spoiled because in this past Vuelta everyone was so tired by the third week, the peloton tended to shrink down to a very manageable size.

They keep promising the motorbike footage but nothing yet.

I just spotted an American rider! He’s tucked in the back, wearing a natty all-black jacket. That would be extra warm if there were any sign of the sun today. I have to say, I doubt this race will do anything for tourism in the UK (though that actually is a great vacation spot).

Oh, cool, we’ve finally got motorbike footage! Of course, it comes with a new caveat:

I wouldn’t want to fly a helicopter in these conditions so I guess I can’t complain.

Sam Bennett, the Irish spinter, drops out. Good, I don’t want this coming down to a sprint. That’s boring.

I’ve just learned that Valverde has abandoned. Excellent! Nobody is able to get footage of him climbing into his team car. He’s probably ashamed to abandon so early, being the defending champ. Well, in fairness, I’m sure he’s totally fried from taking second in the Vuelta. (Am I tempted to give him some credit for that achievement? Please.)

With five laps (about 70 km) to go, it’s still all together, with France and The Netherlands on the front setting tempo. The Dutch are trying to set up wunderkind Mathieu van der Poel for the win.

 Wow, an American attacks! It’s Lawson Craddock.

Daaamn, he’s getting a pretty good gap very quickly!

Some random dude has joined him. It’s Stefan Kung, a Swiss rider. He’s a pretty big guy, which bodes well. Big guys do better in the rain, just like they can hold their booze better. This isn’t just established fact, it’s my personal opinion as well, so you better take it seriously.

After taking like three minutes to eat a gel, Kung finally takes a turn at the front.

I strongly dislike Craddock’s handlebars. They’re like the “Randonneur” touring bike bars from the ‘80s. I guess I’m still rooting for him, though. It’s not like he chose those bars. In fact, his willingness to use what he’s provided, even when it’s so awful, is the height of professionalism.

In the peloton, Mike Teunissen of The Netherlands drills it at the front to shrink down the peloton. We’ll see what that does to the 31-second gap up to the lead duo.

Dang, just watching this is making me cold. I tried to warm my hands on my tea mug but it’s one of those double-walled insulated ones. I’m up in Oregon at my mom’s house, and the window is open because I’m too busy to empty the cat box right now, so it’s mighty frigid here. This is such a hard race for me!

The leaders have a gap that’s fluctuating between 25 and 35 seconds. Obviously they can’t hold this for 57 km, but perhaps somebody interesting will bridge up to them. I don’t think it’s possible for an American and a Swiss to do an epic break like that on their own … you need a Belgian or Dutchman in the mix to do something that heroic. That’s just the way it is.

Patriotism aside, I’d like to see van der Poel win, because I love to say his name. Back when his father, Adri, was winning a lot, back in the late ‘80s, I enjoyed saying that name, figuring out how to inject it into every conversation. (With that kind of social skill, it’s kind of amazing I wasn’t more of a ladies’ man.) Anyway, the young van der Poel is also a mountain bike and cyclocross racer, which I think is just kind of cool.

As the peloton comes through the finish line for another lap we get a more accurate split to the break: it’s only 20 seconds.

Another random guy attacks the peloton. His bike looks really odd, somehow bringing to mind a giraffe. I’m still getting used to seeing disc brakes on pro peloton road bikes. I’ll bet they’re nice to have in the rain today.

The chair I’m sitting at is too low. This is making my shoulders sore. Man, Worlds is a bitch!

The break is just sitting out there. I’m starting to think maybe Craddock won’t win this after all. Speaking of American victories, though, Junior Worlds was won by an American this year: Quinn Simmons. He fricking soloed … I didn’t watch it, but I’ve heard it was amazing. So we’ll keep an eye on that guy!

OMG, some dude totally stacks!

D’oh, his helmet whacked the pavement and everything. Poor dude.

Some guy attacks the peloton, bridges all the way to the break, and suddenly Craddock is dropped!

Man, things change fast. The new leader is Mads Pedersen of Denmark. That was an amazing bridge. So it’s just Pedersen and Kung out front, with Craddock floating a bit behind. Craddock is joined by some Dutchman … who now drops him.

Italy’s Gianni Moscon attacks the field and blows by Craddock, who’s on his way back to seek the breast of drafting and be suckled by the peloton.

The Dutchman who bridged up to Craddock was Teunissen, and he’s now on his own between the breakaway and Moscon, chasing like a madman.

And Teunissen has got them! This is great news for Holland because now van der Poel can just sit on, back in the peloton, and wait to counterattack if the break gets caught.

And now Moscon catches the break!

This is cool: Kung asks Teunissen for a gel and Teunissen gives it to him. They’re great pals now … if they make it to the last kilometer together, of course, that will change quickly.

One of my nephews just came over to see what I’m doing. He thinks that basketball is a far better sport than cycling. (Of course he does … he reached 6’4” at age thirteen.) I explain, “These are real men. They’re out there for over 160 miles in the frigid rain, rather than always playing indoors in a climate-controlled environment.” Peter replies, “Yeah, but they’re wearing yoga pants!” I explain that these uniforms predate yoga. But he’s wandering off. He’ll never learn.

The screen says the break still has 25 seconds but it doesn’t look that way to me. I could see everybody together in one shot just now.

Nils Politt of Germany makes a savage attack. What’s left of the peloton reacts swiftly.

With surprising quickness, Nils and three others, looks like van der Poel is one of them, significantly shrink the gap to the breakaway. Note the absurd Simpson-Meets-Flanders flag in the foreground.

Teunissen is dropped! I did not see that coming. Perhaps he’s dropping back for van der Poel. Could these guys be that organized?

And Nils is suddenly dropped! It’s because van der Poel is going so damn fast! Matteo Trentin of Italy is the guy on his wheel. Not sure who that third guy is.

And now van der Poel and Trentin catch the breakaway!

But the peloton is not far behind and there’s a ton of attacking back there.

So this lead group of five has two Italians. I think Moscon’s jacket might have thrown people off from realizing this. The Belgians have got to be pissed … they don’t even have a guy in the break!

There’s a chase group of three only 7 seconds behind, with the field another 10 seconds back. I hope this break stays off because I’ve taken some trouble reporting on it.

Kung misses a feed. D’oh! But somehow he scores another gel. Very resourceful, that guy. Note that this is the third gel he’s eaten since we started watching. Wise man.

The chasers are Izagirre Insausti (Spain), Carlos Betancur (Colombia), and Tom Skujins (Latvia). They’re looking really tired. Betancur is now dropped.

Up here in Oregon, winter has already arrived. I guess it’s fitting I should be freezing my arse off as I watch this. (In case you haven’t realized it yet, today is really all about me.)

The gap to the peloton is up to 35 seconds with 24 km (15 miles) to go. Betancur latches back on to the other two, but these guys are falling apart, they’re going to get caught. It’s a shame for them … they were so close to catching the break.

The gap is going out further, now up to 48 seconds so it’s not looking good for anybody in the peloton. As for the break, is van der Poel a big enough badass to beat the Italian duo of Moscon and Trentin, if they take turns attacking him?

Just to recap, the break is Kung (Switzerland), van der Poel (Holland) Pedersen (Denmark), and Moscon and Trentin (Italy).

Moscon cracks!

This lowers the breakaway’s chances of staying off, but obviously benefits Kung, van de Poel, and Pedersen if they can hang tough and hold it to the line.

But Moscon digs deep and makes it back on!

You know he suffered terribly to chase them down. What a badass!

Tim Wellens (Belgium) gets sawed off the back of the peloton. The peloton is rapidly dissolving as some furious Belgian bashes away on the front (perhaps unaware of the specific damage his effort has just caused).

Amazingly, Moscon has revived and is now doing solid work on the front of the break!

The leaders are now on the final lap, with only 13 km (8 miles) to go and a 47-second lead. In normal conditions, and in a shorter race, I’d expect the peloton to still have a solid chance, but I’ll bet everybody is just tired, cold, and demoralized. Look how sad Sagan looks. I think his sunglasses are falling off. Maybe that’s why he’s always rocking the ski goggles on the podium. Well, he won’t be doing that today.

Oh my god! Suddenly ven der Poel completely cracks!

He detonated so abruptly, I couldn’t even get a snapshot of the gap opening up. I think he probably bonked. He should’ve hustled up a couple of gels like Kung did!

And just like that, ven der Poel is caught by the peloton.

And now he’s off the back completely. What a shame, after his amazing move to catch the break.

Pedersen, notwithstanding the huge advantage Italy has in this breakaway, does a solid pull.

Trentin has finally ditched his jacket. Moscon is doing a lot of work on the front, making sure Trentin can save something for the finish (being the faster sprinter).

Now Kung pulls through. These guys are really working well together and that’s why the winner of this race will almost surely come from this group.

And Kung is just crushing it on the front! Moscon is dropped again, and Trentin is dying!

Kung is amazing. He was the original guy in this break, you’ll recall. And that was ages ago, with like 65km to go.

Sagan makes his move. Uh, dude? You are aware how overdue this is, right?

Kung is still being a total hero at the front and you can tell he’s suffering.

Now they’re inside of the final kilometer and suddenly they’re crawling, each waiting for someone else to pull through. Kung, on the back, looks absolutely miserable. I think he’s had the stuffing knocked out of him.

And Trentin launches his sprint!

But Pedersen is super fast and, surprisingly (to me, anyway, as I’ve never even heard of him) comes around! He’s heading for the line and looks like he’s got it!

What an amazing victory! I hadn’t really thought much about Petersen’s chances in this breakaway … he was just some guy. So what can we quickly learn about Pedersen? Well, he’s only 23 years old. He rides for an American team. He was second at Flanders last year. And now he’s being interviewed.

“What does it mean, to be wearing the World Champion jersey?” asks the interviewer. Pedersen replies, “Well, it’ll be harder to keep it clean. White is tricky that way, and remember, cycling costumes have to be washed in cold. So 2020 will be a tough season. I think I’ll need to lay in a good supply of Tide Plus Colorguard, and some Spray ‘n Wash.” The announcer says, “This must be a very special moment for you. A good soak should help with those whites. You might consider checking in with Mr. Laundry for some more helpful tips.” Pederson responds, “Thanks. Thanks for that.” (Note: I might not have this exchange exactly right. It’s possible laundry didn’t actually come up.)

Here’s a nice shot, thanks to the super-slo-mo replay, of Pedersen winning the race. I love how utterly wretched Kung looks in the background.

And here’s van der Poel crossing the line, looking pretty bollixed himself.

A domestique, noting earlier that I was slapping my hands together to beat blood back into them so I could type, has now brought me a down vest. I appreciate the gesture but where was he half an hour ago? The race is over!

Now the medalists are mounting the podium. Trentin really doesn’t look very happy.

Not surprisingly, Pedersen looks well chuffed.

And here’s your final podium. Trentin still can’t manage a smile. I hope he doesn’t kick any dogs later today. Perhaps tomorrow he’ll reflect on how a silver medal is actually pretty cool. Kung looks pretty pleased and he should be … he’s only 25 and obviously a complete badass with lots to look forward to. Also, being taller than the others, he will probably ultimately make more money. As for Pedersen, you know who he looks like? Buzz Lightyear. Am I right?

So, in closing, I invite you to ponder these facts: 1) an American initiated what became the winning break (even if he didn’t hang around to contest the finale), and 2) Valverde sucked even more than I hoped he would. What a great race!

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Race Report - 2018 Fort Ord CCCX XC MTB

Introduction

It is a tradition on my bike club to send out race reports that give a comprehensive explanation of how all the race tactics played out to produce the thrilling final outcome. No, of course that’s not true—who cares about any of that? We actually focus on what was eaten, and at what velocity, and what beer it was washed down with. Here is my second report of the year (my first being this one).

But before we get to that, I’m actually on two teams: the aforementioned EBVC road team, and the Albany High School mountain bike team. That’s right, a routine background check determined that I never actually finished high school, so I’m back finishing up a couple courses. No, actually I’m an undercover cop posing as a cheerleader. Or maybe I’m just an assistant bike team coach. I race the CCCX mountain bike every year so that the student athletes get the chance to see me suffer, too.

Executive summary

I had two dinners the night before, one of which included a free beer that was almost forced on me; race-day weather was gorgeous; course was even better than last year; I suffered way better than last time; and, though I did not win, I was a bit closer, and achieved a distinction I haven’t enjoyed since 1991.

On Android phones, the first photo of every blog post appears on the albertnet home page as a thumbnail alongside the title. I want to avoid any spoilers, so here is a photo of my cat drinking beer.

Bonus: my younger daughter was so impressed by this photo, she did a drawing of it!

Race report - short version 

• Race stats: 23.2 miles, 2,343 vertical feet climbed, 1:40:25 race time, 159 bpm average heart rate (vs. 153 bpm last year), 1:36:39 above heart rate target zone  (i.e., 96% of the time!), 13.9 mph average speed (vs. 12.4 mph last year), 16:21 at redline (vs. less than a minute last year)
• Pre-race Dinner #1: “burgef”; some secondhand (moribund) fries; the residue of my daughter’s potato salad; a leaf of her lettuce; two glasses of water, at Monterey Brewing Company (slogan: “We’re not actually in Monterey”)
• Pre-race Dinner #2 (since I wasn’t even close to sated): a carnitas burrito and a beer that a fellow patron insisted on styling me out with, at some random taqueria in Seaside
• Breakfast: one quarter of a so-called “muffin” that was a muffin-shaped hunk of (let’s face it) cake; its polar opposite, that being some homemade low-glycemic-index bread made (apparently) of bits of wood and bark, which took about 20 minutes to chew; one PBJ; half a banana; two cups coffee, black
• During race: one sleeve froot-flavored Clif Shot Blox; one raspberry-ish gel, four bottles of water
• Glycogen window treat: none (because I was too busy standing around near the finish line waiting for my daughter to finish her race)
• Lunch (post-race): a glorious grilled sausage; one small pile spaghetti à la Boyardee(-ish); one small hunk of a grapefruit-sized meatball; half a hamburger bun (white); mustard; artificially colored sweet pickle relish (a guilty pleasure)
• Dinner: three large plates De Cecco linguine topped with one of those new fancy-pants grocery store tomato sauces that’s like $8 a jar (don’t worry, I bought it at deep discount) with fresh BelGioioso Parmesan grated with a zester so it melted like fresh snowfall on the pasta; two large servings spinach (to model proper behavior for my kids); Häagen-Dazs ice cream (chocolate, dulche de leche). This meal was carefully calculated to reverse the effects of the South Beach Diet, which has worked so well I recently got a PR in body fat (5.3%) and my wife is complaining frequently and bitterly about my gaunt physique. I am in full North Beach mode now and gladly accepting donations of beer, pizza, chips, and other crap. If you have anything left over from your Super Bowl party, bring it on by!
• Now (as I write this): one Lagunitas IPA and an apricot pastry because all this talk of gluttony is making me hungry and thirsty!

Last year, I got kind of a crummy start, became disillusioned, lost the motivation to keep hammering, didn’t suffer enough, and ended up finishing just 5 seconds behind another guy in my category (not that it really matters, as both our placings were pretty humble anyway). I have lived with the shame of this poor performance for a year now and thus resolved to put it to rest. So, at the recommendation of my friend/coach/tormentor Peter, I actually did some interval training this year (which is remarkable, intervals being the whole reason I quit racing in the first place) and hammered properly during the race, astounding myself with my ability to stay at redline almost the whole time, and made the (albeit the spacious five-tier mountain bike) podium.

Long version

As I’ve explained in these pages, I’m not real big on goals. That said, I had one general goal for this race—suffer much better (i.e., worse) than last time, with my Key Performance Indicator being a higher average heart rate. I also had one specific goal, which was … shit, I forgot what it was. Oh, yeah—to get a better start so those sorry poor-life-balance ego-trapped alpha-dog get-a-life bicycle-as-penis-substitute overachievers would be trapped behind me for a spell and I might somehow beat some of them. I did not write down a bunch of milestones that I would reach along the way to achieving my goals, but I did train hard, and stuck to the diet that I’d embarked upon in the run-up to my last race on January 1.

The night before, my daughter and I arrived late at the Monterey Brewing Company because Google Maps had randomly directed us out into the middle of nowhere. There we were, driving along this dark, deserted highway with nothing in sight but fallow fields, and then the little voice said, “You have arrived.” Son of a bitch!

Once we rerouted and found the restaurant, the food took forever to arrive even though (being a large group) we’d placed our orders more than a day in advance. We each had a scrap of paper with our order scrawled on it that we placed on the table. Mine said “burgef.” The “f” at the end was actually a lowercase “r” with a bar added so it did double duty as an “f.” This meant “burger with fries.” Ingenious! Most of the other coaches got salads instead of fries, but then they were drinking beers, too. I loves me some beer, but I’d had one (via happenstance) last year and then didn’t race so well the next day, so this time I stood firm and employed all the “Refusal Skills” I learned in high school health class. Even when the head coach teased me and said, “What are you, chicken? Everybody’s doing it!” I held firm. (Note: he did not say this.)

The burger was good and the fries were very fresh. But damn it, after two straight months of quinoa and napa cabbage, I was in need of serious calories, more than a mere burgef could provide. I stared at my daughter’s plate with puppy-dog eyes but she ignored me. I even said, “You know Alexa, if you start to get full, I just want you to know I’m here for you. I got your back—I can help you finish your plate.” She gave me the brush. I did steal a lettuce leaf, and scraped the potato salad residue from her plate with my fork, which at least embarrassed her. She punished me by going on and on about how full she was.

There was nothing to be done but to find a taqueria near the HoJo in Seaside where we were staying. We found a suitable place where the jukebox was just pounding out the accordion-rich taqueria music (which always has a Pavlovian appetite-inducing effect on me). While I waited for my to-go carnitas burrito, the guy at the next table tugged on my sleeve. “Hey, amigo, you wanna beer?” he asked. He had a steel bucket of beers on the table. Resolute in my quest for redemption after last year’s pre-race one-beer bacchanal, I declined as politely as I could: “Oh, no thanks—I have a big bike race tomorrow.” He replied, “Hey, man, it’s just one beer!” Textbook peer pressure, exactly like they warned us about in Health class! I paused. It was only Modelo Especial, which I guessed was sub-5% ABV. (In fact, it’s only 4.4%, with just 145 calories, and it’s even vegan!) The guy went on, “I really want to give you a beer.” So I accepted. Here we are, appreciating quality and enjoying it responsibly.

I love how my new friend isn’t even looking at the camera—he’s looking at his beer, with love in his eyes.

On race day, I wasn’t much use as a coach because I was so busy warming up for my race. Fortunately, the kids rose to the occasion and sorted certain things out for themselves. Apparently sticking Shot Blox to your top tube is all the rage right now. Though I don’t like this idea (what if one fell off?!), I’m glad the kids are marginally increasing their chances of remembering to eat during the race.

At the start line, I started chatting with this guy who looked really fast (thin, ripped, nice bike, not visibly nervous which means he’s a season veteran, etc.). He told me his name, John Hopkins, and I realized I’d raced with him in San Luis Obispo almost thirty years ago! “Your brother sold me my first mountain bike!” he recalled. That’s the good news. The bad news is, I remember him as the guy who always trained more and harder than the rest of us.

All the Category 2 men started together this time, so it was impossible to tell who was in my 45+ category. What’s worse, the young bucks (or who knows, maybe the old bucks) were making the pace brutally fast. The first ten minutes were mostly downhill, which isn’t exactly my forte  because if I crash, my wife will kill me. Fortunately, there were a few great climbs that helped my cause.

One thing about being underweight: it makes uphills a blast! I would see this horrible 12% grade looming ahead, and I’d think, “Yeah! Bring it!” I’d look at the guys around me with something like pity. Now, before you think I’m getting a big head, I’d like to point a couple things out. First, my head only looks big because my body has gotten so twiggy. Second, the only reason these guys were around me is that all the good racers had already dropped me, duh! Those near me were the albeit decent descenders who’d been trapped behind me on the single track and now had the added indignity of being dropped on the climb.

Well, almost all the good racers had dropped me. Somehow John Hopkins was among those trapped behind me, and didn’t come flying by until the feed zone, about half a lap into the race, where I was already guzzling my water before getting a fresh bottle because a) it was hot, and I was sucking air like the ram intake blower on Mad Max’s car, so my throat was totally parched, and b) the kids I coach were running the feed zone and I couldn’t bear to deprive them of the fulfillment of their sacred duty.

Watching John ride off into the sunset doesn’t mean I was complacent, though. I kept passing the same guys on the climbs and then getting passed back on the descents. I thought I was totally holding back on the tricky single-track downhills until my front tire almost washed out. Probably I’m doing ten things wrong (and passing along my faulty technique to these poor high school kids in practice). One guy kept bobbing up (“you again?” we didn’t say) and after the race he confided that he’d had to run off to the woods at one point to take a dump (the implication being “otherwise I’d have beaten you,” and my implied response being “stopping to crap didn’t stop Tom Dumoulin from winning the Giro d’Italia”). Of course it was hard to figure out who was in my category (i.e., who mattered). One rule of thumb: if he has a tattoo, he’s probably not a high-school kid.

I won’t bore you with the blow-by-blow details of all four laps other than to say that the ability to occasionally overtake somebody, and the sense that others were nipping at my heels, really stoked my coals and to my amazement, my heart rate was like 160 most of the time. I kept waiting for my body to fail, and against all odds it managed not to. Toward the end of the last lap, two guys in my category weren’t far behind at the base of the final climb. But this climb was a beast and I really gave it everything.

Photos and video have a way of making climbs look shallower, but that doesn’t even look shallow, does it? Ugh. Anyway, by the top I had a really healthy gap, so much so that I was even able to relax just a bit and gaze out at the new McProjects alongside the course (visible in the photo above) and reflect wistfully that soon somebody will decide that the trails at Fort Ord are a menace, or a hassle, or that Fort Ord itself is prime real estate for more McProjects, and the whole place will be bulldozed, and there won’t be any more races here.

After the finish line, feeling truly shattered, I was filled with the sublime feeling of having truly given it everything, so it didn’t matter how I’d placed—which was good, because I really had no idea about that. It’s better that way, I think, to decide how it went without worrying about the more or less meaningless matter of how I compared to those who happened to show up and race my category.

I stood around until my daughter showed up. We didn’t care how she placed either because she looks so cool in her new shades. Did I say shades? I meant racing jacket factory eyeshade système.

I won’t tell you how she did because she’s working on her own race report.

Here is a photo of my lunch. If you zoom in and look closely, you will notice two things: 1) I was so knackered, I totally missed with the mustard and got most of it on the plate; 2) the ingredients of the relish include FD&C Yellow #5 and Blue #1. Blue dye? Gross! I normally stick to Del Monte which isn’t nearly as pretty but is not artificially colored.

Okay, here is a photo of me on the podium. If it seems prideful to post this, consider that it would be even more prideful not to bother, as though this weren’t any big thing for me. Sure, a great racer would shrug this off and not even mention it, but I haven’t stood on a podium since 1991, and may never get the chance again. So, yeah, I’m going to humbly admit this is like my fifteen minutes seconds of would-be fame (i.e., if anybody but me cared). 

(It looks like I placed 3rd but it was actually 5th. Two guys didn’t wait around for the podium ceremony so the organizers had me step up.)

Look at the winner. Notice how he can’t be bothered to show his team colors. In fact, where’s his medal? What did he do, shove it in his pocket? I guess this guy must win all the time. As for the second-place guy, I’m required to dislike his Stanford jersey, and I really don’t like his teen-style hat. Next year I’m gonna kick his ass … unless I get free beer again the night before.

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