Much earlier this season, Newt started recruiting folks for a trip to his stomping grounds of Traverse City. I'd follow Newt anywhere, and it looked it would make for some fine end-of-season racing. In my teammates and in the quality of the racing, I would not be disappointed. In myself, on the other hand ...
Criterium
Saturday was a constant drizzle, an unwelcome sight given a very technical crit course, complete with bricks, manhole covers and a slight descent. I knew how much this race meant to Newt, but I told him not to expect much from me. I wasn't even sure I'd start, as I still get the fantods thinking about what can happen in a rainy crit.
We started and I surged off the line. Amazingly, I made it first to the first corner. This was odd. There was no mad rush, like the way our big-time crits start. Time to show these lads how we roll in the city. I stuck to the front and drove a hard tempo.
I found the corners quite manageable, despite the slick pavement. I took them easy but without braking, and then stood and surged as soon as I felt good traction again. I have to once again give credit to the Hed wheels and Kyle's excellent glue work. Cornering on the Stingers is like going down a slide: lightning fast, smooth and hard to end up anywhere but where you want to go.
(My first exposure to Stinger 60s was when Brooke Miller credited them for the crazy-aggressive line she took on the final corner of the 2008 national championships. It wasn't sponsor puffery. These wheels slice like samurai swords.)
I kept it up for a few laps, taking brief rests in the draft, but I felt safest at the front, where I could control my own destiny. Indeed, one rider completely washed out in a straightaway. I wanted to stay away from any of that monkey business.
I could sense the pack breaking up behind me. I knew that in conditions like this, it didn't take much of a gap to blow a field up. But when I looked back, I still saw what seemed like 30 guys. Hmmm. Too many for my timid blood. I sat up and let them pass, heading to the sidelines rather than risk what surely would become a faster and more sloppy race.
But I regret it, because the next time they came by, there were only maybe 20 riders left. I could have handled that. As much as I would have hated to have crashed, I wish I had stayed in and supported my teammates better. Oh well. As WOPR said: "Sometimes the only winning move is not to play."
Road race
The weather finally turned for the better early Sunday morning, so we enjoyed dry conditions for the road race, one that suit me well: Two long sustained climbs per lap, plus a handful of steep rollers, with a long, steep stairstep climb to finish each lap.
I was aggressive, spending a few miles out by myself on the second lap, then bridged to what would become a four-man move, including Brian Hill of Get a Grip. We drove a good tempo and worked super smooth: short, hard pulls. Like you're supposed to.
Alas, our group did not include any of the MCG team, and they had a significant presence in the pack. I would learn later that their protected rider had whipped together a team trial at the front of the chase. On the next time up the start/finish climb, their protected rider bridged forward, bringing four guys with him.
We were now a group of nine, and Brian was a mean drill sargeant, demanding pulls out of everyone. Unfortunately, although his riding wouldn't betray it, Brian was being stung by cramps, and soon he would be hobbled on the side of the road.
Let's now take a step back to January. Long, long hours on the trainer, watching and re-watching the classics, dreaming of one day being in the breakaway of a big race, visualizing attack after withering attack until finally breaking free. Visualizations so vivid that you mistake them for memories.
Good breakaways don't happen very often. I've been in only a few this year. And here I was, in a break of eight, on a hilly course. Finally. Just as I'd hoped for. All my training, all my winter day-dreaming had led to this.
Boonen. Voigt. Tafi. January heroes. Would I be able to channel them in August?
Heading into the start/finish climb on the second-to-last lap, I started skipping pulls. Tried to keep it subtle, but I caught some heat. Then I drove a hard tempo up the hill, hoping I'd be shedding people. I did not, but after a short flat, I attacked hard. And again caught heat!
Although I stayed away for only a few miles, I sensed a strange glowering from the others in the break. It was as if I were a Fred disrupting their Sunday group ride. One of them even mocked me as a "Livestrong." The slander wounded me.
And so I did something I'm very embarrassed about: I toed the line. I rotated through. I stayed steady in the climbs. I held off any attacks.
WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! When your opponents are angry at you for attacking, ATTACK! When your opponents are angry at you for sitting in, SIT IN! Sit at the back and take a nice, long tug of water! This is a race, not a quilting bee.
But there I was, browbeaten into inaction, afraid to rock the boat.
We headed into the final climb. How would I play it? I've always had a tendency to go too soon, so I decided to be patient and wait until the last possible moment. I sat sixth wheel and waited ... waited ... waited ... Look at me, Mr. Smart Guy, being patient. Waiting. Waiting.
Someone surged, and I surged with them. And there's where I should have jumped. But I waited some more, and then the road flattened, and from here it was a conventional sprint -- and we all know how I do in conventional sprints.
Sixth place. One of my best finishes of the year, but probably the most disappointing. I should have attacked at the base of the climb, and then again at the top, like the tabatas I've been doing in training. Or I should have countered my own attacks early and had enough faith in my legs to go for broke. Or I should have done a better job staying on the wheel of the guy I'd pegged as the strongest.
For 36 hours now I've been replaying the race over and over. It's not pretty. It's like the Ludovico punishment in "A Clockword Orange." I close my eyes, and all I can see is the gorgeous terrain where I should have been attacking instead of riding meekly.
But that's racing. There are no do-overs, just regrets and lessons learned.
Boonen. Voigt. Tafi. I'll see you guys again in January.