First Time in a Long Time

The short of it:

I raced Hillsboro-Roubaix yesterday. I DNFed. I had an awesome time.

The long of it:

Back when I first got into competitive road bicycle racing, I thought that I was the tops. I won or placed in the top-five in most of the races that I entered, I was aggressive, and I was motivated to sate my competitive urges by engaging in a somewhat esoteric sport. Then, after a series of crashes, one of which left me in the hospital over a weekend, I lost my interest in road racing, and became much more interested in cyclocross, where the chance of crashing is considerably higher, but the risk is considerably lower, seeing as mud and dirt is a far softer surface than freshly paved tarmac. So 'cross became my focus, not necessarily my one true love on the bike (that remains and will always remain long road rides in rural hilly areas), but it's up there. But 'cross season is a long ways away, and it looks like there will be no illegal Bandit 'Cross series in 2008.

But while I'm still leery of road racing, I've been thinking lately about how much I enjoyed participating in them. I never much liked the jitters and quaking that I experienced up to the moment the moment the race official said "Go," but I always loved the ritual of it. The signing of waivers, the pinning of numbers, all make-up an intrinsic part of the racing experience.

So, back when the 2008 races were announced, Hillsboro-Roubaix captured my interest. Here was a race with plenty of terrain (which I love), was challenging, and would give me something to work and train for. I signed-up for the Cat. 3/4 race, which at 66 miles, would certainly present me with more hurt than I could handle. A solid contingent of guys from Half Acre, including Adrian Silva, Helge Pedersen, Tim Strege, and Kevin Clark, along with Ben Popper and Mike Hemme, both comrades from Killjoy, and Chris Padfield from Team Pegasus, all registered for the race, and some of us even went down to the course a few weeks ago to scope the corners out, note any interesting features where an attack or break could be made.

Two days ago, on Friday night, I got my bike all ready: I replaced a leaky tube, lubed the chain, checked my cables, and left the frame nice and dirty, to give it that nonchalant, I'm-too-busy-training-to-clean-my-bike aesthetic. Lame, I know. I also packed-up all my clothes, got my food ready, and went to bed at 8:36 PM. I awoke at 3:30 after a fitful night of light dozing, made some coffee, loaded the car and met the gang at Rapid Transit, whereupon we hit the road.

Helge Pedersen wasn't able to make it down due to a stomach virus, so Kevin and I rode down together. We entertained each other with tales of high-school hooliganism and the virtues of cussing loudly on the bike, and the wonders of oatmeal. Sooner rather than later, we made it to Hillsboro, got registered and got ready. I went out onto the road for a bit to warm-up and psyched myself out by overthinking all the what-ifs. What if I bonk? What if I crash? What if I make a fool out of myself and my team? So I started getting the nervous shakes – Auk, who was racing with me in the 3/4s, said "You better stop that, 'cause you're gonna make me start shaking." That calmed me down, strangely enough, and before I knew it, our race was off and I was in the middle of a pack of 100-something bike racers, heading out into the race course.

Things were good, at least for the first eight miles. At mile nine, Andrew Nordyke of the Chicago Cuttin' Crew, went out on a bit of a flyer, and somehow wiped-out and slid down the road. At seeing him go down, all the memories of crashing hard out of races came flooding back and I lost all the nerve and gumption that I'd won back. So I cruised for a few seconds, thought about it a bit, and then hit the pedals hard. The pack had leapt forward at the sound of Nordyke's crash, and I was left to chase with a few other stragglers. At the bottom of a windy, blind descent, I was maybe 300 yards behind the pack, but it was having no part of any hint toward waiting for me.

Over the course of 36 some miles, I fought against the wind and hills with a varying succession of riders, some shelled off from the back of the pack, others cursed by flats or mechanicals. All but a few I dropped, and at the end of the second lap, it became quite apparent that my efforts, while admirable, where mostly wasted. All my fellow stragglers had dropped-out of the race, but I decided to strike out on the third lap, to punish myself for my earlier brief moment of hesitation. Two miles out, Ben Popper passed me on his way back into town for the finish of his race, and after thinking about it a moment, I turned around and paced him back in, where he finished and I DNFd.

After cooling down, I found Mike Hemme and found that he'd won the 4/5 race, by pushing a two-man breakaway for about 40 miles. Amazing. Kevin Clark took 14th, and everyone else finished strong. Chris crashed, unfortunately, but besides some scrapes, he was in decent shape, albeit pissed-off (and considering the circumstances, rightfully so.)

Since Mike had $100 and a trophy to collect, we all waited around for what seemed like forever. Not a moment after he received his spoils, we hit the road and stopped at Cracker Barrel for post-race sustenance and commiseration (and celebration) over the day's events.

The ride back took longer than the ride down, but was no less fun, especially once Kevin and I both realized that we both can't stand Tom Petty. Three Inches of Blood made things interesting and I finished the last of my oatmeal. Later on, I stopped by Naz's house in order to celebrate his 30th birthday, and I got to hang out with more Half Acre-ians, and got completely drunk off of only two beers. The miracles of dehydration and utter stinking fatigue.

It should go without saying, but I didn't ride today.