NCNCA Masters Championships Road Race - Someone have a spare shoe?

Race: NCNCA Masters Championships Road Race

Imagine racing with one broken cleat, yet finishing your best ever. Check it out…

Representing the San Jose Bike Club in the 40+ race was Chris Wire and I. Chris’ job was to keep an eye on the strongmen, and mine was to help where I can. Unfortunately, within the first 4 miles my right cleat broke. Why couldn’t this happen during my warm-up? Why not during training? Ugh. 95 degrees, no shade and 52 miles (5 laps) left to go.

First time up the main climb, my right foot popped out of pedal and slammed my leg. Ouch. Imagine me trying to power climb without standing up. You guessed it, back I drifted. I struggled to stay connected while the field split apart. The field was immediately whittled down to 21. I was number 21.

The attacks came and came. I could not respond at all. My foot was flying out of the pedal, my crank hitting my leg, and my attitude getting worse and worse. Luckily, about nine studs take off (including Chris) in little groups, which leaves 12 guys for me to deal with. I am convinced I cannot finish with a broken cleat, so at the feed zone I yell to Laura, “Right Shoe!” I actually had a long description to give her on what the problem was, and where to find the shoe, but only had enough time to get two words out.

Second time up the climb I get dropped with two others but chase and chase. I cannot stand up at all now and am starting to whine like a baby.

At the feed, Jeremy Wire gives me a life-saving hand up of water (It is so freaking hot I am drinking almost 2 bottles every 1/2 hour!), and Laura gives me a race-saving hand up of a shoe. How cool is that?! Shoe goes directly in my mouth while I try and figure out how to switch them. It hurt a bit to pedal barefoot on Speedplay pedals while the other guys continued the chase but I was able to hang on. I toss the broken shoe.

We finally catch on along the run-in to the third climb. Four more guys are off the back of our pack. Now we are down to eight guys, and racing for tenth place. Third and fourth climbs are fine. I can now stand up, accelerate at will, and am feeling OK despite the heat. I can tell at least 6 or 7 guys are really suffering. I am even able to keep up with Dominic Giampaolo (Alto Velo), who is a great climber and has always torn me inside out.

On the fifth lap, we catch two guys who have fallen back. Our field is up to ten and we are racing for eighth place. This is the best situation I have ever been in at this race. Jeremy and Laura continued their hand ups and I keep drinking and pouring water on myself.

I am feeling fine. I go hard on the last climb.

Two Zenn Racing Team guys go with me. Chris Ott and Scott Fonseca. Scott drops me and I drop Chris. The remaining field is far back. Scott solo’s in the last 5 miles for 8th, while I solo in for 9th. Tired, but really satisfied!

Panoche Road Race

Panoche was quite an experience!  It started hot, and then got hotter.  Word is that it ranged anywhere from 100 to 107 on the pavement.  Totally insane. 

Greg Bloom announced before the race, “We have a follow car.  One of you is going to crack today.  When that happens we can pick you up.  Do not push yourself into heat exhaustion.  Pull over and as a reward you get to ride in air conditioned car!”  Great announcement, and definitely true.

I rode the race in the E3s.  We did the 67 mile race.  That means 3.5 hours in the heat.  (Perfect for barbequing ribs.  That long, and the meat just falls off the bone.)

Normally the crosswind section is where the race shatters.  Today though, there was little wind, so it wasn’t hard.  Since in the E3s everyone is closely matched, we had the entire field still present at the turnaround.  I decided to make a move.  This was probably my only good chance. There was one guy off the front about 100 yards.  This guy was a hammer, so I decided to bridge to him on the climb just past the turnaround.  I made it across, but so did 10 others.  This is where I started to feel the first indications of falling apart.  Nothing serious; just a slight shortness of breath, and a general feeling of weakness.  My real concern was that this was happening with 33 miles left to ride.  

The 12 of us started pacelining to keep the field broken apart.  After about 5 minutes I couldn’t help out.  I was hyperventilating and could feel my heart pounding.  What the hell is happening?!  I dumped water on my head and shoulders and drank some more.  (I had been doing this all day, but needed it again.)  I sat in.  15 minutes later, I had a runner’s cramp (you know that stitch in your side).  I couldn’t do anything to deal with any attacks.  I was just trying to hang on the back and make it home.  Then the attacks started in earnest.

The spirit was willing to chase, but the flesh was weak.  This is something I had never experienced before.  Normally when I crack, my mind makes me WANT to quit.  This time I wanted to ride, but just couldn’t.  Every time I put power down, my lungs felt shallow, I would have this overwhelming sense of “stop pedaling!” and sometimes I actually did!  This is totally out of character for me, but I simply could do nothing more than ride tempo.  Within a few attacks 5 guys got away: one off the front, and four chasers.

The remaining 7 guys completely fell apart.  One by one people were packing it in.  I ended up a solo chaser of the group of four away.  They remained about 100 meters in front of me.  I kept telling myself, “Just catch them, and you get a free ride home.  If you don’t catch them, then you have to ride it all solo.”   This was great motivation because by this point I didn’t care that I was going to get a top 10.  All I wanted to do was get home.

At the last feed zone, I was within 50 meters of them.  Then, one guy looked back and saw me.  Just what I didn’t want.  The four chatted, decided to work together better, and in no time they were gone.   I continued.  I had to change my self-talk to keep the legs moving.   Luckily, I was eventually caught by two guys.  Keith Jordon and Dave Parrish.  We were just riding to finish without being caught by anyone else.  Dave fell apart and dropped off.  Keith and I reluctantly continued.  We caught one of four chasers and went by so fast he couldn’t get on.  It was just Keith and I going for 5th and 6th.

Keith ran out of water. I had 2 swallows left. We figured we were only a few miles from the finish, so he took one, and I the other.   A mile or two later we see the 10k sign.  F#@k! F!, F!, F!, F!, F!  We both were just hating life at this point, and the last thing we wanted to see was that we had another six miles to go.   Six miles might not seem like much, but it felt like the straw that broke the camel’s back.  When we finally rolled across the finish Keith gave me 5th (what a guy!) and I rode right to the water station!

I drank water, but was feeling sick to my stomach.  I drank slowly and went to the car for some much needed air conditioning.  I went back to the feed station for a snack and started feeling woozy and a little dizzy.  I was in a bad spot.  I sat in the shade and recovered to a manageable condition within 15 minutes.   Once my faculties returned I noticed that the consensus of the racers was that today was definitely the hardest race this year.

Hazing Incident at Local University

You probably heard that I was a victim of a hazing incident at the University of Santa Cruz.  It started 4 laps into the University Road Race.  It was the result of a number of brutal attacks from numerous riders.  I really cannot comment on who was taking part, because I just had my head down and was trying to imagine myself in a better place.  I fought back initially by hitting a PR for four minute power levels, but was forced to succumb the very next lap.  I completely fell apart and was summarily dropped on the floor, kicked around by the next group of riders, and then dropped again.   After a few solo laps of the course, I was caught be a group of riders who had likewise been victimized.   I eventually was able to recover from the beating, and finished the race in fine form. 

Special thanks to Laura for handing up water bottles, and to Greg, Chris, Clark, and Todd, for partaking in the madness.  With their presence, it was not a lonely experience.

In case you had not figured it out by now, this was a sanctioned bicycle race, and had nothing to do with any incidents of assault, battery, or physical violence (even if it felt like it).

Panoche Road Race 2008

Only in exceptional cases do I post race reports.  Panoche Road race was one of those cases.  Why?  Not because I did especially well, but instead because I suffered especially well.

Daryl

Category: Masters 35+, Category 1/2/3

Teammates:  Aaron, Matt B., Andrew, Ramon, Clark, Chris

Weather: Hot, exposed, oven-like.

In case you hadn’t heard, this race was hot as hell.  Riding out, we were about 1/2 hour into it, when I noticed I had nearly finished my first water bottle.  I started to get concerned.  I reminded Aaron, “Keep drinking.”   He was.  I looked down, and noticed he gone through 3/4 of his.  We knew were in for a tough day.

Going out though wasn’t too bad.  Other than the guy running into my rear wheel (which made all kinds of racket), there weren’t any real items of interest.  However, when I saw Dan Martin moving up to the front just before the cross wind section, I knew we were preparing for a tough time.  When hit the cross wind section the race was ON.  It started off really fast, and then got faster!  I was in the gutter trying to echelon without riding too far in the dirt.  This took a certain amount of bravery and stupidity at the same time.  After 2-3 minutes I started to fall off…ever…so…slowly.  Inch by inch I lost ground.   Matt B., who was behind me, saw I was falling off.  He started to go around.  That little amount of draft let me hang in another 10 seconds.  Then someone else came around.  Another 10 seconds.  That was just enough.  It was then when the 6 strongmen (including our own Chris Wire) broke away from the field.  This slowed the field just enough to let me hang on.  I looked at Matt. “How about that?  That was f-ing brutal!”   (This was Matt’s first race in the 35+ 1/2/3, and they certainly weren’t playing nice!)

We went up the harder climbs and I was feeling good.  Andrew advised patience, and told me to sit in and attack after the turn around.   I needed to try and get across to the six.   This was a good plan.  Unfortunately, our group went too slow at the turnaround.  I tried to spur them on a bit and led part of the climb.  I then rested a bit and jumped.  Although the 6 were getting farther and farther away, and my solo attack would never catch, I figured I can thin the second group out some.  Ron Castia started to bridge, so I slowed a bit to pick up a chase partner.  This way we could keep the pressure on, and maybe (with a lot of luck) get across.

Soon after, Jeff Poulson bridges to us.  I shut down.  Ron was telling me to pull, but I knew I couldn’t help at all.  There was no way I was going to help Jeff make it up to the 6.  He is just too good.  So I sat on them both.  They continued to work for about 15 minutes, while I took a ride.  When what was left of the main field had just about caught us, both he and Ron sat up.  I attacked.

Boy was that a strong headwind.  I got into a rhythm and just kept pedaling though.  Sooner or later, someone will come along and help.  If not, at least my team can rest, while the other guys get discouraged chasing into what felt like a blow dryer. 

Thirty minutes later…I am all alone thinking, “Damn, it’s hot out here,” and “I am going all out, but can only manage 13mph!”  Fifteen minutes after that, I am still all alone thinking, “Damn, it’s hot out here…and my water bottle is empty…Oh, this sucks…Why won’t someone bridge up to me?”

After 53 minutes, I was finally caught.  By the whole group, no less.  “

Clark, do you have some extra water?!?”

“I am dry.”   We’re all hating life at this point.

Then, they come: attack, after attack, after attack.  Ron Castia, and Jeff Poulson were valiant, but  Andrew, Ramon and Clark covered everything. 

Clark even made a couple of solo attempts.  Chalk this up to tenacity, and a really well organized team!  Everyone knew what to do. 

Then, after another really hard effort, when the group was quite unhappy, I attacked.  I knew I had no legs for any kind of sprint, so what the heck?  I figured on going out there and frying.  Hopefully I would soften up a couple of guys while our guys rested.  Five minutes later, I see “5k” painted on the street.  Is that real, or a mirage?  What is that for?  Our race, or some other event?  I am feeling quite lousy, but press on. 

Too long later, I see a real sign: 1K to go.  I look back and see no one.  I look forward and see the finish tent.  I look back and see no one.  Forward again to the finish. 

I roll directly to the water jugs with my rear wheel squeaking.

Whatever physiological system that was protecting my body from shutting down suddenly realized that I was done.  I started hyperventilating and I could feel my heart pounding through my chest.  I rolled to a stop, retained my balance, and started to re-hydrate.

When coherency returned, I looked at my rear wheel.  Remember back at the beginning of the race when some guy ran into my rear wheel?  Well, he tweaked a spoke and sent the wheel out of true.  I was rubbing my rear brake for the entire race!  Man, what a day.

One last thing:  Kudos to the feed zone volunteers!  Without them, there would have been a number of people in a very bad situation.  I personally would have ridden myself into the ground.  

Never Again

Literally every year I am questioned about the time I rode the epic race, the Everest Challenge.  Even though this year it won't be until September, I am already started getting questions about it.  Whether or not you consider yourself naive enough to attempt this race involves a personal examination of your own mental and emotional state.  To help you in this endeavor, I will post my race report from 2002, and then you can make the decision yourself.

"The Everest Challenge is the toughest race I have ever encountered. For those of you who have not heard of it, it is advertised as 120 miles long, with 15,465 feet of climbing! Of course, that is only the first day. The second day is 86 miles with 13,563 feet of climbing. If the 105 degree temp doesn't kill you, then the altitude will. Results are based on your
accumulated time.

This race broke me. I was totally destroyed, both mentally and physically. I remember starting the day ready for action/ After 3 hours of intense climbing, my body told me that I had just finished the Mt. Hamilton RR. Unfortunately, my mind told me I still had some racing to do. As far as I could tell, at this point I was second in my category. Luckily for me, a really strong rider, Louie Amelburu (winner of the 2001 Spring Mountain Omnium, and a number of other 35+ races), totally fell apart at the top of the second climb. This was at about the 4-hour mark. I figured I was now first, and that as long as I continued to hammer, I could get the State Climbing Champ jersey..

Well, hammer I did. When I finally got to the base of the last climb, I was tired. My legs were totally blown. I was climbing this endless false flat into the wind at 6 mph! (It turns out that this false flat was actually an 8% grade, but after staring at all the other climbs I did, this actually looked flat to me.) Regardless, I pressed on. I kept telling myself that
everyone else is hurting, and that I could push through. After another hour or so (at 6 mph), I was totally dejected. I wanted to quit. I wondered why I was there. I was counting the miles left. As far as I could tell, I only had about three miles to go. I got off the bike. I was at 8000-9000 feet of altitude, and could not even turn over my 39X27!! I walked, I looked back, then I rode some more. I finally made it to the last feed station. Desperately, I asked them, "How far is the finish?" They responded. "Just 12 miles left! Good job."

12 MILES!!!! I summoned all the math skills I could at this point ad realized that I had ANOTHER 2 HOURS TO GO!!! I could not make it. I didn't know what to do. I was totally broken. I ate and drank all day, 'till I was nearly sick, but I had no strength. I decided to press on.

I ended up stopping three more times. I got off the bike, looked around, questioned reality, and rode some more. I wanted to quit so bad! Finally I came upon the 10K marker. I pressed on. The last kilometer was torturous. I know deep down that the race organizers set this up on purpose, and I was pissed at them for it. The last kilo was full of rollers. 15% grades! (At 9,000 feet with 15000 feet of climbing in your legs, 15% is A LOT.) I walked the bike. I could not even ride out of the saddle, for my legs were too wobbly. I finally made it over the finish in 6 hours and 24 minutes or so.

The people at the finish offered to take my bike. They offered me a drink. No joke, I could not even respond to them. All I could do was stare. After 30 seconds or so, I was able to speak. "Sugar water," was all that came out. (I actually wanted PowerAde, but could not think of the words.) About 10 minutes later I was finally coherent enough to think straight. I then realized that I was not in first place. Mark Weiderman (the Cat 3 winner of this year's Tour de Gila five-day stage race) had beaten me to the top.

I rested a while, ate and drank, and descended.

Only one more day.

I found out the next morning that I was second by a little over 4 minutes. The third place guy was some 54 minutes behind me. Realistically, I had second locked. My plan was to do what I could to finish. I needed to make up four minutes on Mark to take the lead, but he was a much stronger rider than I. The only thing I could do was ride my own race and see what happened.

Basically, we promenaded for about three miles, and then hammered. The race split into fragments, with a group of Cat 1 and 2s (and Mark) riding away from me. I did what I could, but stayed within myself. This day was more of the same; pain and suffering. I ate and drank like my life depended on it.  My stomach was full nearly all the race, but I continued to eat and drink anyway. It was so hot. Although they were a bit disorganized at times, each one of the feed stations was literally an oasis in the desert. The descents felt like there was a giant hair dryer blowing over my whole body. At about 3 hours into the day, I started the final climb. It was 20 miles, and went to 10,100 feet! I paced myself and thought of quitting, but continued on. On a happier note, my wife and kids drove by in anticipation of meeting me at the top. They rooted for me, and my son even handed me a bottle at the next feed station. Awwww. I grinded up the hill in my 27, looking for another
gear. I had to stop of few times, to make sure I did not destroy myself like I did the day before. I was glad when it was over. The second day took me some 5 hours and 25 minutes. I was done.

My body was so depleted. Despite eating and drinking before, during, and after the race, I still lost 5 pounds.

The officials still had not received my time at the bottom by the time we drove home, but given that I had an hour lead on third place (and beat him again this day), I am sure I got 2nd overall. I picked up my prize for finishing top-three (Rudy Project Sunglasses), and drove home (Actually, my wife drove. I just sat in the passenger seat and tried to remain conscious). "