Short version: I ride for 60 miles off the front, by myself for a little while, with six guys for a little while, with just one guy for a little while, and then by myself again as I cross the finish line in first place.
Long version:
Tom and I get a late start, don’t really warm up, and then proceed to be at the very back for the neutral roll out up one of the three major hills on the course. Very quickly, about a half-mile in to the race, Tom tires of this position at the rear, so I follow him up to the front along the shrinking pavement on the right edge of the road. By the time he gets to the front, there are a couple people up the road, and he has a dig. I’m stuck maybe 15 back, looking for any possible opening so I can jump. With the two of us in there, and a couple guys with teammates in the main group, who knows? Early break could be fun. So I finally find an opening, jump, bridge, but a guy several bike lengths behind me also attempted to bridge and brought the pack up with him. Within seconds of me bridging, he gets there, and we’re swallowed up. Being an unmarked man and needing a warmup, I decided to throw another dig in, but no one was biting.
So there I was, off the front, lonely and alone.
I sing songs to myself (not aloud, silly), sure to keep my watts at a decent level, not too hot that I’m actually hurting out here, but not easy enough that I get swallowed up right away. I pretend I am Tom for the moment, visualizing what he might be doing at that very moment, employing reverse psychology back in the main field: “Don’t worry about him, he does this every race, he’ll be back here in a couple minutes.” Random songs come and go in my head. Reel 2 Real’s “I Like to Move It Move It” syncs up with my right leg’s downstroke. It’s soon replaced by 60s doo-wop or some pretty vocal arrangement that can’t be sped up to some multiple of my 100 cadence, and it doesn’t leave my head. I try to stomp it out, taking out my aggression and disappointment in my sub- and un-conscious on the pedals, but still the muzak persists.
I think of girls. I think of defining conversations and momentous, albeit too-brief, encounters with the good ones. I daydream that one is at the top of the start/finish climb, urging me on. “I’ll kiss you if you win, Liam,” she silently mouths to me over the din of the roaring fans. I giggle a bit to myself, realize perhaps I should have stopped thinking about her two years ago, and continue on. I think of college: Miami. Damn, it was nearly four years since I graduated. I’m old. I’m a different man riding a different bike in a different time, but at that same old place. The same loop I did maybe a hundred times, slowly (sloooooowwwwwwly) chiseling down my then-177-pound frame to a much-more-manageable, ehhh, 175. I don’t have term papers hanging over my head. I don’t have senior projects to contend with. The student newspaper I was an integral part of for nearly three years doesn’t even exist anymore. Right now it’s simply me and my bike. I’m back on a training ride at school. Hueston Woods right x7 is how this would go down in that original 2004 Excel spreadsheet ride log.. Easy as that. Try to set a personal record. 21.1mph average will do it (boy, have things changed).
“Hey Triple-X!”
Fifty-one minutes off the front by myself and I’m jolted out of my reverie to what my mind assumes is the peloton. Ah yes, this whole bike race thing. “Jump on, we got a gap,” he instructs me. I get excited at the prospect of an actual break and something other than daydreaming happening. Six guys pass me right before the second big hill on the course and I jump on the train. I glance back and realize their “gap” is all of eight seconds. Not quite the two minutes I probably had at one point, so let’s hustle. We kill it up the climb, regroup on the long downhill and begin a paceline.
The next 40 miles are done in a mostly rotating paceline fashion. I surveyed my competition, and mostly wondered about the old guy having trouble pulling through. “That guy’s with you, right?” I ask a guy who reminds me of Tomasz Boba, and who, solely because of a face-shape-underneath-helmet resemblance to a local Chicago racer, takes the Man to Watch in the Break award from me. Yes, he says. “Is he saving for the sprint, or is he just slow?”
“Naw, I think it’s just that he’s 50 years old,” he apologizes. I ceremonially place the Don’t Worry About Him medal around the old man’s neck.
With every lap we do, it becomes more and more apparent who the strongest man is, and his name is Adam, and he climbs real fast. Up every climb he speeds a little ahead of the pack, and then slows to let it all come back together. I take a mental note that I’m not going to be beating the man up any hills today, but also realize he’s the guy I’ll want with me when we whittle this break down to three or four.
Couple things slowed us down: first was when Matt, a solo rider from Team Type 1 Development, dropped his chain on a hill. “Big ring! Big ring!” three or four of us yelled in unison. No use. He was slowing to a stop as we kept on riding past him. I didn’t like the thought of losing this guy, as I pegged him for the rung just below Adam, but I knew that there’s no reason to slow down, because he’s strong and will want to be back up here ASAP. The match he undoubtedly burned in order to bridge back up to us would prove decisive later in the race. The other thing slowing us down was the occasional automobile. The road isn’t closed, and with the number of fields all riding concurrently around the 9-mile loop, there’s bound to be some unwanted interference. We encountered a few who didn’t feel like pulling over or stopping, but did feel like slowing down. We’d weave around them, careful not to go too far out over the yellow line. Far cry from Hillsboro yesterday. Other than that, the paceline was smooth, and I kept rotating through, sure that Tommy was back in the main field turning himself inside out to make sure no funny business was going on.
With about 25 miles to go, I almost lose the chance for whittling, as we get within sight of the peloton on the climb. Everyone in our break slows up, I dawdle off the back and assume it’s coming back together. I’m ready to regroup, not banking on these six guys picking the pace back up. But, this break was focused and determined, and had a couple very strong riders in it. Lots of talking went on, encouraging and whipping everyone into shape and making everyone realize how imperative it is we keep the pace up. Indeed the pace was kept. Bravo, gentlemen.
A few miles later, after we’ve all turned up the juice, I drop into the rear of the paceline, look back, and don’t see anyone. Out of sight, out of mind, I tell the others. This break is going to stick.
At this point there’s maybe 20 miles left, and several of my break-mates are looking tired. Too tired that surely they’ll slow us down. I attack on a flat section, and no one is interested in joining me, though it at least does enough to make them all pick the pace up. Short while later, I come to the front of the paceline on a climb, and keep the pace up. I even say something about keeping the pace up to egg everyone on. But upon looking back, I see a bunch of tired faces and slow-moving legs, and know I have to make another move and pray that Adam and Matt and maybe bizarro-Tomasz follow, and the four of us regroup and ramp it up until the finish. I don’t attack so much as I start riding hard off the front on the climb, turn back near the top, and it’s just me and climbing sensation Adam. No one else really put in an effort, as the five remaining guys slowly crept up the climb together. We have a gap, but we’re 1.5 laps, or 13 miles out from the finish. I turn to him. “You and me, you want to do this?” He says yes. Off we go. Our lead keeps increasing, and we mutually agree to 30-second pulls. I take a quick look back every time Adam pulls through. Eventually I look back and see nothing. That’s when I stop looking back.
We cross the start-finish line as the bell rings, indicating one lap to go, and I know the two of us are going to come to the line in 8.5 miles together with no one else in sight. And he can climb. And it’s a fairly grueling uphill. Hmm. Chew on it, Liam, you’ve got time.
I spend the next eight miles trying to figure out where I’ll attack him. I know that if we hit the base of the final climb to the finish at the same time, that he will surely go up it faster. And part of me thinks he’s the stronger rider, and I set myself up for acceptance of 2nd place, just like in Fayetteville, AR, the year previous. Man, I’ll bet Tom is back there just hating his life.
I know my strengths, and I assume Adam’s weaknesses as well as I can, having only ridden with the guy for 40 miles, during most of which my tongue was hanging out and I was busy trying to mash my pedals and not get caught by the main field. We pass the first climb of the lap, where we had gotten off the front the last go-round, and he does his non-attack attack again, and I simply can’t match his acceleration. There’s some car traffic at the top of the hill, and he swerves and makes his way around it. He’s got about five seconds on me. I don’t dig into the red, but just bring the pace up enough that I’m gaining ground instead of losing it. We’ve still got five miles to go, so I have plenty of time to get back up to him. On the flat I close the gap easily, and he says something about needing to work together so that we finish ahead of the group.
“Well if you keep riding me off your wheel, we won’t be able to,” I say laughing, at this point almost resigning myself to second place. He acknowledges, and holsters his weapons. We go up the second hill together, keeping the cadence high, ensuring the chase group doesn’t get back to us. At this point, I figure it’s the peloton who we have to worry about, as it surely would have swallowed the chase group by now? Regardless, we must go fast. Thirty-second pulls. Getting closer to the finish. How do you win, Liam? The layout of the Hueston Woods loop plays over and over again in my head. Adam has the legs, but I have the smarts.
About 1.5 km from the finish, there’s a massive downhill where one reaches speeds in excess of 40mph no problem, then there’s maybe 300 meters of flat, quick jump over a little bridge, and into a steep 100 meter left turn kicker, which slowly false-flattens out for maybe 300 meters before the final, steepest section that runs 300 meters up to the finish line.
2k to go. I shorten my pull as we approach the big downhill, so that he has to go in front down it. He doesn’t buy it, and we go downhill side-by-side, me ducking as low as possible while straddling the top tube, he just tucked in the drops still spinning. My way is a bit faster, and I watch him slip out of my view to my right as he slows behind me. We hit 40 mph at the bottom of the descent, and Adam comes out ahead of me. As he goes by me, I see he has slipped forwards off his seat, leaning to eek out maximum aerodynamic efficiency. I jump in his slipstream and hammer it, full gas, around him.
1km to go. I either just won this race spectacularly or failed miserably.
I pedal as hard as I can, knowing it’s Fabian Cancellara distance from the finish line. I glance back, and I have a sizable gap. I know I’ll need something bigger, because the guy can climb, so I dig deep. My legs, which due to cramps had prevented me from finishing with the group the day before at Hillsboro, clench. Strange pains on the inside of my legs threaten to cripple me off of the bicycle. Both calves fire off vengeful volleys of cramp. I am in complete agony, and can only assume Adam is right behind me. I stand up on the bike, 100 meters until it’s over, and throw one last glance back. I have a gap.
I zip up, and groan something fierce as I cross the finish line first.
Adam comes in just behind me.
Approximately three minutes later the remnants of the original break come in, followed just seconds back by the rest of our field. By this time I’d turned around and come back to the finish line to watch and do what I could to support my teammate, i.e. yell the word “Dig!” really loudly. Tom’s a top five in any field sprint, as sure as you’re born, so I assume he’ll come in around 10th place. Did Briney suffer at all? What was his race like? How badly did he have to work to make those 60 miles happen? Ha ha, he is going to be happy, regardless!
Maybe 20th place I see the familiar xXx jersey coming up the hill, gassed and making no concerted effort to try for 19th. I feel a strange anticipation as I wait for him to cast his glance over to me. Ten feet before he crosses the finish line, he sees me. I’m on the side of the road, leaned up against my bike, arms in the air in triumph.
Those who were at Burnham Spring Super Crit last year know of the roar that Tom belched when he crossed the finish line that day, winning the 4/5 race. Even the still photo just screams. Well imagine that, only four times as loud, and 10 times as long, and you’ll understand the yawp he unleashed as he probably cut some guys off to give me all kinds of praise and high fives.
“YEEEEESSSSSSSS!” That single word, as pronounced by Thomas Briney with the most power he could muster, situated at the top of a quiet wooded hill in Ohio, resonated in my veins. Up until then I was cringing, still in an obscene amount of pain after, you know, being off the front of a bike race for 60 miles. But upon hearing that, and the subsequent “THERE’S YOUR EIGHT UPGRADE POINTS, BABY!” “YEAH!” “OHIO’SGOTNOTHINGHOWDOYOULIKETHATHELLYESYEAAAAAHHHH” “YESSSSSSSS!” yells, my mouth turned up, and I smiled for the remainder of the day.
Tom didn’t have to say a word to tell me how his race went (though hopefully we’ll read about it or at least hear about it at the next meeting). His demeanor, his excitement, his pure elation told me louder than any yell or intricate detailing of each lap could do – which is that he completely and utterly destroyed himself, if not as much perhaps more so, than I did, to ensure victory.
Just two Chicago boys going down to rural Ohio and cleaning up.
I’m extremely proud to have been able to come through after all that hard work you put in back there making sure no bridgers got up to us, and making sure the group that did get up to me in the first place was a good one. So thank you, Tommeke. Job well done.