Harvest 50: Late season bike racing
The Harvest 50 started relatively slow, for a race. I rode not the usual carbon road bike setup, with 110 lbs in smooth 23 mm tires, but with 50 lbs in 40 mm jagged-treaded tires on my cool, new-to-me Ritchey Ti-cyclocross bike. The first five miles cruised along on asphalt at 18-20 mph before we turned onto country, crushed-rock roads.
This was a gravel race.
The lead riders in the pack did not slow when we hit the stone path. The physical output increased substantially, however. Five miles more and I could not sustain the pace. The leaders rode away, as my speed dropped 1-2 mph. But, I still felt really good: legs pumping, arms guiding my front wheel through the many mini-skids caused by shifting stones, as I constantly scanned for a firmer path. Drivers passed occasionally, and riders with more (or less) juice rode ahead or dropped behind. It was windy.
I attached myself to a group of a dozen riders, a couple I knew, including diminutive Jane, super-strong track racer. Riding north, with the gusting wind from the west, I might have complained about her lack of wind-breaking stature for me to draft behind. There was to be scant draft energy saving that day. With a side wind on asphalt, riders will quarter overlap the rider ahead in a drafting echelon line that stretches across the road. Or, better, they form a two line circle, with riders in the wind’s leeward line moving up to the front and changing to wind facing line to slow down, partially protecting those moving up, until it was their turn to move to the windbreak line. We all chose the firmest path we could see in the gravel, preferring wind over the quicksand like suck of deeper gravel that would slow us down more.
About 10 miles in with this second group, I felt the usual warning sign of high output: a vise-like ache in swollen thighs. The pack speed surged and ebbed. It surged again and for a few more seconds my mind and legs weighed the task of keeping up. I could not. I pulled out to the left. Detached by another 1 mph reduction in speed, the pack line pulled away. I still felt strong at this sustainable speed, and I chased. Ten minutes later, at a state road crossing, the pack was stopped by traffic, I caught them. I did not lose the pack again.
It’s a funny thing when you reach maximum output and try to sustain it. I know it well in training rides, especially with a strong group and a rotating echelon of drafting riders. Maybe at 15% below max sustainable output, sheltered from the wind by other riders, I pull through at 15% above max, as I briefly become the lead rider, then move into the slower line to allow the rider who was behind to pass me then move over to become my windbreak. If he passes and slows to the 2 mph slower off-pace of the second line, I recover. However, frequently, the new lead rider will keep his pull-through pace. I then have to accelerate to recover his draft. Two-out-of-five times, those extra 8-10 seconds of extra effort cook my thighs, and I drop from the pack, burnt. I find my own sustained pace and pursue, unassisted. The pack, still sharing drafting resources, pulls away.
I am amazed at some riders’s strength when they can pull the pack along at a pace difficult to maintain even in the draft! When a strong rider pulls to the front, the pack accelerates, and I feel the mind/thigh calculations begin. How long can I match this new speed? Many times the pace slackens within a few seconds, and I recover. Maybe twice a year, it is me that accelerates the whole pack to great speed as my legs find all the reserves they need to pull the pack’s pace line to overtake a breakaway group, maxing out their efforts. I marvel at what combination of that week’s training and recovery gave me such an energy gift! I want more of those times! I want to be able to occasionally solo away and tease the pack to catch me!
Back to the gravel. Our now reduced eight-rider pack turned its northernly course at the race’s halfway mark and we headed south. I felt the mind/thigh wager two more times during speed surges, but each time I found the grit to hang on. I was not going to separate and have to ride on my own now! Forecasts had predicted strong winds, with gusts of up to 40 mph! When the southernly route occasionally turned into that west wind, that blessed wind-breaking draft was such a gift for taxed legs. Proceeding southward, we began leaning sideways into a wind to stay upright, correcting more mini-skids as the front tires clawed for grip. One strong gust pushed me half a foot across the scree - scary! With 15 miles or so to go, our rider pack splintered.
I joined the lead two riders still churning along. An older rider with RCC letters on the back of his all-black long-sleeve kit led a younger rider. With 10 miles to go, I slackened my pace and let the two others move away. But within two more miles, I guess their reserves were spent. I passed them, and was on my own. I pushed into the sustainable threshold of thigh pain for the final few miles.
As it was called the Harvest 50 gravel race, my joy rose as I glanced at the odometer reading hit the 40s, then upper 40 miles, knowing the end was nearing. At 50 miles, my surroundings told me I still had miles to go! A pro rider in a Texas Roadhouse team kit passed me with another rider in tow (was that Nebo-teammate Matt Turner?). I jumped on his wheel. But our southern course aligned only on the firmer straight south path gave no echelon draft possibility in the gravel At a mph faster than I could maintain, they pulled away.
I listened to a rider name Sean on the 160-mile RAIN (Ride Across Indiana) ride the last summer say something about neuromuscular pain: it was mostly in your head. I turned over in my mind the lyrics to Hamilton, the musical, in my mind, “I am not throwing away my shot!” as I concentrated on applying constant pressure through the full circle of my spinning crank arms. With only a few miles remaining the course returned to blessed asphalt! I passed one flagging rider, then another and another.
The bit of the course was eastward and that west wind pushed everyone toward the finish. I passed one more solo rider in the last 200 yards, then crossed the finish line in the grass next to barn where the race had begun for me, 3 hours, 18 minutes ago.
In every race I’ve been in, I’ve wondered about those crucial moments when I persevered or when I’ve given in to biting pain of “all out” moments. I know my legs started this particular race only slightly annoyed by the past few days training. That was good. I wonder now, given a precisely planned and executed schedule of training and recovery, if I can create the shear, breakaway winning experience I’ve seen others do. I may find out during this coming year, having fully invested in coached training. I like competing, and I want to see what this old body can muster when I treat it well. Thank you God for the opportunity.
This was a gravel race.
The lead riders in the pack did not slow when we hit the stone path. The physical output increased substantially, however. Five miles more and I could not sustain the pace. The leaders rode away, as my speed dropped 1-2 mph. But, I still felt really good: legs pumping, arms guiding my front wheel through the many mini-skids caused by shifting stones, as I constantly scanned for a firmer path. Drivers passed occasionally, and riders with more (or less) juice rode ahead or dropped behind. It was windy.
I attached myself to a group of a dozen riders, a couple I knew, including diminutive Jane, super-strong track racer. Riding north, with the gusting wind from the west, I might have complained about her lack of wind-breaking stature for me to draft behind. There was to be scant draft energy saving that day. With a side wind on asphalt, riders will quarter overlap the rider ahead in a drafting echelon line that stretches across the road. Or, better, they form a two line circle, with riders in the wind’s leeward line moving up to the front and changing to wind facing line to slow down, partially protecting those moving up, until it was their turn to move to the windbreak line. We all chose the firmest path we could see in the gravel, preferring wind over the quicksand like suck of deeper gravel that would slow us down more.
About 10 miles in with this second group, I felt the usual warning sign of high output: a vise-like ache in swollen thighs. The pack speed surged and ebbed. It surged again and for a few more seconds my mind and legs weighed the task of keeping up. I could not. I pulled out to the left. Detached by another 1 mph reduction in speed, the pack line pulled away. I still felt strong at this sustainable speed, and I chased. Ten minutes later, at a state road crossing, the pack was stopped by traffic, I caught them. I did not lose the pack again.
It’s a funny thing when you reach maximum output and try to sustain it. I know it well in training rides, especially with a strong group and a rotating echelon of drafting riders. Maybe at 15% below max sustainable output, sheltered from the wind by other riders, I pull through at 15% above max, as I briefly become the lead rider, then move into the slower line to allow the rider who was behind to pass me then move over to become my windbreak. If he passes and slows to the 2 mph slower off-pace of the second line, I recover. However, frequently, the new lead rider will keep his pull-through pace. I then have to accelerate to recover his draft. Two-out-of-five times, those extra 8-10 seconds of extra effort cook my thighs, and I drop from the pack, burnt. I find my own sustained pace and pursue, unassisted. The pack, still sharing drafting resources, pulls away.
I am amazed at some riders’s strength when they can pull the pack along at a pace difficult to maintain even in the draft! When a strong rider pulls to the front, the pack accelerates, and I feel the mind/thigh calculations begin. How long can I match this new speed? Many times the pace slackens within a few seconds, and I recover. Maybe twice a year, it is me that accelerates the whole pack to great speed as my legs find all the reserves they need to pull the pack’s pace line to overtake a breakaway group, maxing out their efforts. I marvel at what combination of that week’s training and recovery gave me such an energy gift! I want more of those times! I want to be able to occasionally solo away and tease the pack to catch me!
Back to the gravel. Our now reduced eight-rider pack turned its northernly course at the race’s halfway mark and we headed south. I felt the mind/thigh wager two more times during speed surges, but each time I found the grit to hang on. I was not going to separate and have to ride on my own now! Forecasts had predicted strong winds, with gusts of up to 40 mph! When the southernly route occasionally turned into that west wind, that blessed wind-breaking draft was such a gift for taxed legs. Proceeding southward, we began leaning sideways into a wind to stay upright, correcting more mini-skids as the front tires clawed for grip. One strong gust pushed me half a foot across the scree - scary! With 15 miles or so to go, our rider pack splintered.
I joined the lead two riders still churning along. An older rider with RCC letters on the back of his all-black long-sleeve kit led a younger rider. With 10 miles to go, I slackened my pace and let the two others move away. But within two more miles, I guess their reserves were spent. I passed them, and was on my own. I pushed into the sustainable threshold of thigh pain for the final few miles.
As it was called the Harvest 50 gravel race, my joy rose as I glanced at the odometer reading hit the 40s, then upper 40 miles, knowing the end was nearing. At 50 miles, my surroundings told me I still had miles to go! A pro rider in a Texas Roadhouse team kit passed me with another rider in tow (was that Nebo-teammate Matt Turner?). I jumped on his wheel. But our southern course aligned only on the firmer straight south path gave no echelon draft possibility in the gravel At a mph faster than I could maintain, they pulled away.
I listened to a rider name Sean on the 160-mile RAIN (Ride Across Indiana) ride the last summer say something about neuromuscular pain: it was mostly in your head. I turned over in my mind the lyrics to Hamilton, the musical, in my mind, “I am not throwing away my shot!” as I concentrated on applying constant pressure through the full circle of my spinning crank arms. With only a few miles remaining the course returned to blessed asphalt! I passed one flagging rider, then another and another.
The bit of the course was eastward and that west wind pushed everyone toward the finish. I passed one more solo rider in the last 200 yards, then crossed the finish line in the grass next to barn where the race had begun for me, 3 hours, 18 minutes ago.
In every race I’ve been in, I’ve wondered about those crucial moments when I persevered or when I’ve given in to biting pain of “all out” moments. I know my legs started this particular race only slightly annoyed by the past few days training. That was good. I wonder now, given a precisely planned and executed schedule of training and recovery, if I can create the shear, breakaway winning experience I’ve seen others do. I may find out during this coming year, having fully invested in coached training. I like competing, and I want to see what this old body can muster when I treat it well. Thank you God for the opportunity.
Comments
Post a Comment