the hurt

Saturday I finally bucked up and did another 'cross race. This one was a no brainer, since I was co-ordinating my team promoting it and I was a) there and b) racing for free. If you missed it (probably you did), the Fox Hollow Grand Prix course ruled. We threw in lots of off-camber grass, hard turns, short steep pitches, and one really, really long run-up.
Being well used to needing extra time to slow down and stumble over any remotely technical 'cross obstacles, I started at the back per usual but soon realized that most of the group was not really into going hard, so I kicked a little bit and went around a group then pegged it for about 2 laps... at which point I looked at my heart rate watch and saw 191, which explained why lunch seemed to making a re-appearance in my throat. The watch also delivered the interesting comment that I had, indeed, completed a full 7 minutes of the 50minute race.

This was bad news.

Worse, I had jumped up to 4th with Sami Fournier racing with us pretty much right on my wheel. Yes, she was wearing the stars and stripes. Yes, her bike was complete Dura-Ace. Yes, she was very smooth. Yes, I spent the whole race looking over my shoulder. I held on to the position - but it was pretty sketchy. By that, I mean I was sketchy. I may have way more power than a skinny little masters national champion, but I have way, way less skill. Still, I came out on top... 20 years, a Y chromozome, 40lbs, who knows how many watts... don't mean crap.

Chapeau, Sami, nice ride.

October? What October? I have some vague fading dream of stumbling through a wood at midnight in the rain with 5 rounds in a .30-'06, a failing 3-led headlamp and a spinning compass, hands and elbows smelling like blood, and a sinking feeling that I wasn't alone... but I just can't place it anymore. The whiskey haze that I supressed whatever October was with is lifting and for some reason all my wool socks have gone missing and my ammo looks damp.

And then, suddenly, this:

I dug around the clothes bin and pull out some lycra. Arm-warmer. Jersey. Found a bike pump.

Found some dirt

Found out the Red Sox are turning into the new Yankees, and found out that in some parts of the world bike racing never really stops... maybe I'll get my hung-over hairy ass in a race number and start 2008 already. Is it time? I think maybe it is. Oh, my head... .

tasty...

"breakfast" burrito

all your calories in one meal so you dont have to waste time with two others... mmm... tasty.

in other news, death rates from cancer in america are down.

i speculate that it's because people are dying of being fat, instead.

Time flies when you're not riding your bike. I think I can count on both fists the number of real 'rides' I've done in the last 4 weeks. It's good. The desire is coming back. I warrantied my '04 Fuji frame for a new one, '06 model this time, and switched all the parts off my red steel burley frame onto a gold steel burley frame, this one with larger diameter tubing and a sloping top tube. Why? Why not?

It's almost time to ride again. Get dusted at a few cross races, pile on some long distance rides to warm things up and halt the steady decline of fitness.

Or not.

critical mass

Critical mass has been reached. My legs no longer itch. My stubby hair no longer gets caught on pant legs (altho corduroy is still more comfortable than jean, and flannel lined carharts are best of all).

It has been about 3 1/2 years since I have been this hairy. There were a few times when it seemed like a good idea to let it go, and I made a valiant attempt, but 5 days in to the regrowth the itching would start, and by day 7 or 8 I could no longer stand pulling on pants. Weakness overcame me. I gave in.

But no more. Critical mass has been reached at last. The poking, itching, scratching has given way to soft, gentle fuzz. My skin is now cushioned from clothing and insulated from the elements. For the first time since early '04, I have felt the wind against my legs while riding my bike. It was a gentle breeze.

'cross time at last

The best time of year is here: September. Not only do I get to forget about turning a year older, but I get to pull out the best bike of the fleet and race on dirt in some warmish weather.

No computer, no powermeter, no tactics, no expectations, no nothing. Bike racing at it's best: strictly for fun.

Tuesday opened up the cross season with the Harlow short CX series - a twisty course with lots of loose pea-gravel, deep dust, some fast barriers, hard packed dirt, and ruts. I rode the whole thing in the drops, trying to remind myself to relax my death grip on the bars and I got kicked, bounced, and slid all over the course. Owch. With a nice 40' ride out there and back, plus some random riding around and cooling down, I got in a 2 1/2 hr ride. Not bad for a week day.

Saturday I made the drive to Portland with the woman for some "dirt crit" action. Running as a cross race, billed as a semi-criterium, Kruger's Kermesse involved a 1.6mile course essentially set up as two squares joining at a corner, which located the pit, the whole thing on a slope so there were some good gradual uphill drags and one fast descent to a left turn on to grass before the finish. I pulled up the the back of the pack for the start, which was both a blessing and a total curse. We started up a stretch of hardpack dirt and gravel road, then took a right turn onto a stretch of rutted dirt farm road that blew up such a cloud of dust that I litterally couldn't see the wheel in front of me, much less the ground. I ended up in some tilled up dirt of a field, off the road, and off the back. The section wasn't technical, and pretty fast if you could actually see where you were going. So I was about 50 yards behind the pack from the gun. That was the bad news. The good news was, I could now see where I was going.

So, I put the hammer down. And kept it down. A lap later I was in the pack quarter of the strung out pack. I kept it in the red for the first 4 laps, by which time I figured I was back up to about the middle, maybe a little behind. At this point I throttled back to merely 'hard' to avoid blowing up in the 45min race, and started really picking my way through guys who had started a bit too hard. With 20 min to go I was lapping more C riders who started behind us than catching B riders. With 15 min to go, everyone I could see in front of my was a C. I figured the B leaders had gotten a train going early and were gone, but I stood a good chance of actually having moved up to a respectable position. Two B riders that I caught on the last 2 laps stuck with my wheel but going into the bell I put the hammer down again and managed to drop one of them. The second came around me in the second to last turn and I pulled by him in the finishing stretch.

So I guess that I passed everyone I could pass, considering a small group of guys were motored off the front after the first lap and I was chasing the back. Could be worse. Actual finish? 7th. Passed 36 riders in the B's, lapped about 40 C's. Total chaos on the dirt. And a hell of a good time.

Genetics.

Threshold: 370W
VO2 peak: 70.0ml/kg/min

I signed up for a physiology study at the U of O. After they turned up the ramp test to 490W I put my head down and got a lungful of my own spit from the mask. That pulled the plug on the test. Max? Donno. It couldn't have been far away. With the rules of keeping cadence between 60 and 80 and not standing, it made it interesting.

Let's see... if I loose 10lbs, I'm on par with the pro's... only I don't have 10lbs to loose... so it goes. If I lost the 10, I'd lose 30W or more. Damn genetics.