| Andrew's (First) Big
Race
By Andrew Curry
Web exclusive, February
13, 2000
UC Davis Cache
Creek Road Race, 8 a.m., Feb. 12, 2000
It wasn't a very dignified finish. I crossed the line cursing my way through
a crashing wave of adrenaline cresting over a flood of lactic acid, both
feet out of my pedals, my face and calves grey with grit and my clothes
spattered with mud, sand and snot.
Still, it was a finish, and it felt good -- my
very first road race, even if it was in the lowest category of collegiate
cycling, and in Davis farm country. And, rain, mud and cold aside, it was
fun.
Six laps earlier, there had been about thirty guys crowded up to the starting
line. The riot of colors on the guy's jerseys showed where they were from:
blue and white from UC
Davis, a large clot of deep green and blue marking the Cal
Poly San Louis Obispo (or, as we like to pronounce it, "SLOw") team,
orange and blue for the UC Berkeley team, Stanford's
red and white candy-stripes and a scattering of other schools.
At the official's whistle, we all clicked into our pedals and set off.
The course was a 6.3 mile loop, and my category, men's Ds, had to do six
laps. The first two times around were mellow, as people engaged in low-key
jockeying for position and figured out the contours of the course.
The latter was pretty easy, since it was mostly flat. With the exception
of a few "rollers," or gentle hills, the major obstacle was a ferocious
headwind on the back stretch of the loop. This is, after all, the center
of California's Central Valley, farm country that has much in common with
Nebraska geographically. It being winter, the course was wet. Though the
sun teased us mercilessly, it rained for most of the race, which added
an element of caution -- and cold. My legs were soaked after the first
lap, and my toes went numb three laps in. The condition of the road was
iffy, too -- one short stretch was rain-soaked, hard-pack sand and gravel,
and there were a
number of gaping potholes
that were harsh on thin, high-pressure roadie tires.
For the first two laps, I held a position up among the front five or six
guys. On the third lap, the pack broke up. Seven or eight guys accelerated
hard, opening up a gap, and a few of us tried to chase them. I hung
on for a little while, but dropped off when the pace got to be too much
and hooked up with a clutch of guys who had been about mid-pack. The leaders
ramped it up, and soon they were out of sight.
The five of us (I was the only guy from Stanford in the group) formed a
little paceline, drafting behind the strongest guys as we headed into the
wind. Drafting is incredibly important in road racing, more so than I ever
realized. Hanging a few inches behind the next guy's wheel, you use their
body as a wind screen to conserve energy. Some athletes would probably
call this cheating (It's illegal in triathlons, for instance) but road
racers call it "strategy." A group drafting can go much farther faster
than one guy alone, and the idea is to cooperate to save energy until the
very end, then let each guy go it alone in an effort to win with a sprint
to the finish.
As we entered lap four, my little group decided (wordlessly, pretty much)
to cooperate, each of us taking a turn at the front. For some reason,
five dwindled to four, four dwindled to three, and finally, at about the
beginning of the sixth lap, the third guy (a whiny guy on an old blue Specialized
bike) dropped off, leaving me with a guy from Cal Poly who was just a glutton
for punishment. He had a black rain jacket that was billowing like
a sail, and that combined with his height let me get a decent amount of
draft as we came around the final lap. I was willing to pull, and even
suggested we take quick turns. Despite my magnanimity, he seemed to like
riding in front, so I let him do the majority of the work on the back stretch.
By the
time we came to the final turn of the sixth lap, about 500 yards from the
finish line, I was ready to rock. I shifted into my big ring, clenched
my teeth and blew by him, accelerating hard down the gentle slope leading
up to the finish. 50 yards out, I was really moving (unfortunately, I have
no idea how fast: I put my front wheel on backwards before the race, so
the sensor for my bike computer was
on the wrong side of the spokes). I had no idea whether this guy was right
behind me or not, so I pushed it as hard as I could. Then my feet popped
out of my pedals.
Clipless
pedals are designed like ski bindings: Twist your foot to the side
and it pops out, move it up and down in a straight line and it stays firmly
locked down. I guess I was putting a lot of lateral motion in, because
suddenly I was shooting past the line with both feet unclipped, the huge
surge of panic-induced adrenaline wasted because I couldn't get my feet
back in on time.
Fortunately, it turned out I had already put him well behind. I already
was turning around to warm down when he crossed the line. I went
and joined my teammates under our tent, spinning on a trainer to work the
lactic acid out of my legs. They said I was about a minute behind the main
pack, which had finished with a dramatic sprint.
I often reflect on how absurd cyclists must look to the rest of the world
(spandex, crotch pads, funny helmets, weird shoes)and as I warmed down
I realized I was not only absurd-looking but a total mess. My face
and calves were coated in grit and mud, my knickers were spattered with
grit, spit and snot (no time for Kleenex) and I was sweaty despite the
cold.
They posted the results on a dry-erase board about half an hour after the
race ended. I walked through the muck to the registration tent and scanned
the results. Halfway down was the cryptic "13-305-STA": number 305 (me)
from Stanford (STA) placed 13th, out of a field of 26 finishers.
Not bad for my first intercollegiate road race.
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