I found this write-up I did following the 2010 Rapha Gentlemen's Race. It was a hot day and I was severely under-prepared for the ride. Though we got cut from the last portion of the course (as did most of the other teams), all six of the Velodirt riders that started the race rode into Chris King Headquarters together, an experience that left me greatly satisfied.
August 15, 2010
Somewhere on Otto Miller road. I glance
down at my computer. I seem to be averaging just under 7 mph. I lost
my cue sheet, with its elevation profile, some time ago but I seem to
remember people talking about the “two ten-mile climbs”. No magic
math can get me past the reality that I will be on this road, the second
climb, for another hour. And after that … but … I can't worry
about what's after. There's just this gravel road that I must get to
the top of. Every bend offers the possibility of a flatter road just
beyond. And, as I round each bend, I see only more climbing.
Sweat gathers on my visor. And falls
down in big drops and splashes on my handlebars and on my stem and
drops down to the dirty ground underneath. A couple of riders pass
me. Up ahead, one rider is stopped, straddling his bike, bent over
his handlebars and his teammate stands nearby, looking anxious. But
the road is mostly empty. I think. I'm no longer noticing much. I'm
in a cave by myself. I stare down at the gravel slowly going past,
with occasional glances ahead to ensure that I pick the best line,
the most worn part, where there will be less gravel to sink into.
Corners require the most concentration, where a bad line can send you
sliding down the camber. The most important thing is to not waste
energy. If you are struggling to keep your bike upright then you are
wasting energy.
It is quiet. Peaceful. The only sounds
are birds chirping and my labored breathing and the soft crunch of my
tires slowly rolling over the gravel road.
At some point a large Sprinter van
rolls up alongside me. It looks like a team van to me and I expect
them to roll past. Then I notice that the passenger window is rolled
down and the guy in the passenger seat is staring at me.
“How are you doing?” the man asks.
“Oh, I'm fine.” I realize now that
this is the Rapha van, probably acting as a sweeper. No matter how
awful I feel right now I absolutely do not want to get pulled from
this race. I will not get pulled. “Yeah, I'm great. How are you?” I say, and I realize as I say it that I sound like a heat-addled dope.
There is a pause that seems to
last forever. Then the guy says something that sounds like “Have
fun” and the van moves on.
I am annoyed that they wished “fun” upon me, if that is indeed what he said. This is, obviously, nothing
close to fun. But I didn't get yanked, that's the important thing. I
grin wildly, stupidly. Absurdly happy that I have pulled off this
conspiracy. Not even my teammates know that I could count
the number of times I have ridden over 50 miles on one hand. Nobody
knows that I'm not even supposed to be here!
I can't seem to catch my breath. I
shift up and stand up in my pedals, cranking up the hill like
climbing a staircase. I sit back down, downshift, and spin. Nothing
helps. My breath is ragged. My heart is racing. I take a drink but
the effort to get the bottle out of its cage, to swallow the tepid
water, to replace the bottle, these actions make me more flustered,
my breathing more desperate. During the entire climb I have had an
understanding with myself that I would not stop.
Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't stop.
I consider this
mantra carefully. Why not stop? Because you will not start again.
Well, why not? Why wouldn't I start again? This is a
challenge. You must overcome it. You must not stop. I will
overcome this challenge. I will stop and then I will continue and I
will get to the top. Don't be weak! Keep pedaling! Whatever.
I'm stopping. But you'll get rubber legs. You'll puke. You won't
get back- Shut up. Just shut up.
At a slight bend in
the road I find a nice, shady spot. I lean my bike against this
lovely, shade-providing tree. I glance around self-consciously and
urinate beside the tree. Not much urine comes and what urine I do
expel is orangish yellow. I've been drinking all the water I can
stand. It just seems to leak out. As my soggy jersey affirms. I begin
to think Aaron was onto something, dumping salt into his water
bottles.
I stand for a
minute. Wiping sweat from my forehead, leaning against the tree,
getting my breathing under control. I keep glancing down the road. I
don't anyone to pass me while I am standing here like a lunk.
Finally, I am
breathing normally and there is no longer any reason to stay. I push
the bike forward and leap on and mash on the pedals and soon I have
achieved my normal rhythm and I am going up the hill and my breathing
is under control.
Somewhere near the
top I remember that I had brought tiny, tinny speakers and an
mp3-player. I had pictured busting it out as my teammates labored
with me up a climb. They would be astonished and then overjoyed that
I had lugged speakers all this way. And we would all rock out as we conquered the climb …
Anyway, there is
nobody around. Only a lone rider up in the distance. I pull out
the player and queue up the White Stripes and shove the speakers into
my jersey pocket.
Dead leaves and the dirty ground …
I am energized by
the music. Without extra consideration or effort my legs pump harder
and my bike moves faster.
… If you can hear a piano fall …
I gain on the other
rider and then pass him. He says something to me that I don't
understand. I hope I'm not being obnoxious, blasting music out of
shitty speakers on this otherwise peaceful day. But I do feel sort of
awesome. And this music is awesome. And I am rocking up this hill.
.. And every
breath that is in your lungs …
Then,
before the song is even finished, I am at the top. Bikers are milling
around a tent with sandwiches, water, and cold sodas. And Tom is
telling me that the we've been cut. The race is over.
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