A friend, who is a very fast rider, is doing the Davis Double on a tandem. Another fast tandem and a group of fast single riders are starting with them. Will going with them mean a fast ride and an early finish or completely blown legs in the first hour and a suffer-fest in the inevitable afternoon heat? Do I dare find out? Ten days to decide.
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Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Tom's Memorial Service
On May 1, I went to Tom's memorial service in Davis. His family and girlfriend Deb hosted the event at Rominger Winery. It was a very nice event and did much good to all of us who were shocked by Tom's passing.
Tom's mom, Doris, is a lovely woman, who lives with her daughter/Tom's sister, Meredith, in Southern California, not far from Tom's brother, Andy, a former professional motocross racer. Tom's sister Carol lives in Texas. Tom had a history of coronary heart disease and high cholesterol. He chose to deal with cholesterol through diet and exercise rather than by taking medication. Tom's father, a jet pilot, had died of a heart attack at 44. Tom thought he had beaten the odds by outliving his dad by 12 years. Tom's grandfather, Tommy Milton, is a Hall of Fame auto racer, who'd won the Indy 500 in 1921 and 1923. Clearly, the men in the family like to go fast, though Tom chose the slowest means of propulsion -- human powered.
Friends and family members told stories from Tom's childhood, cycling career, and professional life. Carol implored all men to get their health checked and to take care of themselves. There was a bit of a sentiment that this was preventable, but no one was bitter. Sad, yes, very much, but not bitter. The family will buy a defibrillator and donate it to Davis Bike Club for use on SAG vehicles and establish a scholarship in Tom's name for CPR education: two very worthwhile endeavors.
.
Tom's mom, Doris, is a lovely woman, who lives with her daughter/Tom's sister, Meredith, in Southern California, not far from Tom's brother, Andy, a former professional motocross racer. Tom's sister Carol lives in Texas. Tom had a history of coronary heart disease and high cholesterol. He chose to deal with cholesterol through diet and exercise rather than by taking medication. Tom's father, a jet pilot, had died of a heart attack at 44. Tom thought he had beaten the odds by outliving his dad by 12 years. Tom's grandfather, Tommy Milton, is a Hall of Fame auto racer, who'd won the Indy 500 in 1921 and 1923. Clearly, the men in the family like to go fast, though Tom chose the slowest means of propulsion -- human powered.
Friends and family members told stories from Tom's childhood, cycling career, and professional life. Carol implored all men to get their health checked and to take care of themselves. There was a bit of a sentiment that this was preventable, but no one was bitter. Sad, yes, very much, but not bitter. The family will buy a defibrillator and donate it to Davis Bike Club for use on SAG vehicles and establish a scholarship in Tom's name for CPR education: two very worthwhile endeavors.
.
DMD: A Good Deed Goes (Unpunished) Rewarded
Scott Halversen, the good soul behind Quackcyclists, the club organizing Devil Mountain Double, and Chuck Bramwell, the California Triple Crown tsar, have given honorary finishing credit to three of us who'd stopped to render aid to Tom Milton. (The fourth Good Samaritan finished the ride and got credit, obviously.) Thank you, Scott and Chuck.
.
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Sunday, April 25, 2010
2010 DMD
"Ride slow, rest fast" was the mantra in hope of finishing before 9:00 p.m. My best time had been 9:25.
I started at 5:00 and went with the front group through the flats of San Ramon and Danville on the way to Diablo climb. Really fast people start at 6:00. The pace was quick and manageable. I planned on a 1:15-1:20 ascent to reserve energy. I stuck to the plan while the entire group, with which I'd ridden to the foot of the climb, rode away. About a quarter of the way up, I caught Tom Milton, a friendly and funny man of 56, a very strong and smart rider, and the man behind Selle An-Atomica, a saddle I use on all my bikes. I'd met Tom two years ago, riding doubles, and we have been double century acquaintances, riding and talking together for decent stretches at a time whenever we saw each other -- our pacing is similar. We caught up for a few minutes, then I shared my ride plan with him. He heartily approved and said he'd be going slow-ish because he'd ridden a 400 km brevet a week earlier and his legs weren't feeling so great. "He would be a perfect riding companion," I thought, and asked him whether he minded company. He didn't, of course, and we climbed Diablo together through fields of California poppies and lupine, joking and chatting, as the sun rose over the hills rimming the eastern edge of Livermore Valley. A couple of other riders rode behind at our pace, listening to our banter and occasionally chiming in. Our group of four made it to the top comfortably.
I filled my bottles and went to the bathroom. Tom had left a few minutes before me. Descending, I kept looking for the 6:00 group. Last two years, I've seen them climbing Summit Rd., about half a mile above the saddle. This year I didn't see them. It was only 7:00 when I hit the saddle, good 10+ minutes earlier than previously. I really spent a lot less time at the rest stop this time. "Cool," I thought, "my strategy is working."
(descending Diablo)
At the foot of the descent in Walnut Creek a brisk group coalesced and we worked well together, catching Tom in Clayton. More friendly bs on Marsh Creek Road to Morgan Territory. We climbed Morgan together, Tom entertaining us with tales from the very rainy 2007 edition of Paris-Brest-Paris (a mere 90-hour, 1200 km ride) and joyfully lied to us about where the top of the climb lay. Thus, we reached the second rest stop, legs feeling a bit softened by the ride's second major climb. Up to then my average speed was 14.2 mph. Fast descent and fast flats lay ahead, which boded well for a 9:00 arrival.
At the rest stop, I was held up in a bathroom line and Tom left a few minutes before me. I descended "The Plunge" that is the southern side of Morgan Territory Rd. to outskirts of Livermore. Usually, frontrunners from the 6:00 group catch me here and I can ride their wheels almost all the way to Patterson Pass. But I could see no riders ahead or behind, there was a gentle side/tail wind blowing, so it was time to work alone. I rode medium briskly, going 20-21 mph into the wind and 22-23 when the wind was with me. The roads outside Livermore are freshly repaved, which makes them are so much fun to ride. Soon I saw a pair of cyclists way off in the distance. I timed them from a turn they took and they were a 1:15 ahead. Assuming they were going at close to my speed, I didn't want to try to make up that kind of a gap, as it would take too much work. So, I continued going at my pace, taking time checks at every turn. The gap came down rather quickly and I caught them going through Livermore. There was a very good reason I caught them -- they were going 16 mph. I sat in the back of the paceline, resting a bit and wondering whether they'd start riding for real, but no, 16 mph was it.
After a couple of miles of such dawdling, at the intersection with Greenville Road, we joined the course of Wente Road Race, a group of racers went through the intersection just before us and I said to my companions, "that would be a fun paceline." One of them said sarcastically, "good luck catching them." "Fuck you," I thought and rode off, not so much in pursuit, but to return to my earlier pace. If I caught the peloton, all the better. I didn't catch the peloton and within two minutes found the sarcastic guy on my wheel. We rode together, swapping pulls at a decent clip for a few miles, the wind enthusiastically blowing us eastward, when we caught Tom, riding comfortably at 28 mph (it was that windy) side by side with another guy. We sat behind Tom and his companion, enjoying the draft and contributing to the conversation. Sean Smith's (see 2009 Central Coast Double report) group caught us just before the turnaround. They blew past us, but Sean decided to ride with us. Still, there was no sign of 6:00 starters.
Soon, we crossed I-580 and headed west toward Patterson Pass. Into the wind. I've written several times about how I detest Patterson: It's long, steep, and hot. Well, this year, thanks to the light wind, it wasn't hot. It was quite pleasant, actually, and because the road often hugs hillsides, some of the time we had wind shelters. So, it was breezy and cool and very comfortable. Our group swelled, as we caught a few people and a few others caught us. Sean was bemoaning his gearing -- he had a low of 25 in the back and was wishing for a 27. Tom needled Sean's choice of gearing and flaunted his 32-tooth rear cog. I took pictures of windmills spinning wildly.
Tom and I skipped the water stop a mile below the crest. The others stopped. The rest of the climb hurt, but not so much that we couldn't talk. I opened a bit of a gap near the top, descended the west side of Patterson, and turned right, where the DMD course rejoined the course of the Wente race. After a few minutes a couple of riders chasing the field passed me, I jumped on that mini-train and enjoyed a nearly 30 mph tow back to Livermore. On Vasco Road, I caught the remnants of Sean's old group and wheelsucked to Mines rest stop. The fastest of 6:00 starters showed up here.
Jeff Gould was at Mines. He messed up a wrist in a crash two weeks earlier and it was aching something fierce, so he was bagging it. Tom arrived a few minutes after me. I filled my bottles and hit the road. A few minutes later, Jeff came alongside, saying something to the effect "the hell with it" about his wrist and we rode together. Mines climb has never been kind to me. Always warm -- often way too warm -- and seemingly interminable. Jeff took it upon himself to pace me to a 9:00 finish. And I have to say, he was unbelievable. I rode harder than I would have alone and with my greater effort and the enormous benefit of his draft I rode much faster. The climbs were a bit of a struggle, but we arrived at the lunch stop at Junction Cafe at 1:05. My average speed was 15.1 I was at least 40 minutes earlier than on my prior DMD rides. Tom arrived at lunch 5-10 minutes later.
The three of us ate together. I had a Coke, chips, and a ham and turkey sandwich. I looked around the table and we were all having the same thing! It didn't seem like we dawdled, but when we checked the time, Jeff and I had been there over half an hour. It was time to get going. Tom said, "my tank is empty." I went to the bathroom -- another bathroom line. By the time I came out Tom was already on the road. Jeff and I left at 1:40.
We rode and rode on flats and rollers to the foot of Mt. Hamilton. The wind changed 180 degrees. Where we had a tailwind into the lunch stop, now we had a head wind. I checked the vital statistics at 2:00. We had 85 miles to go and seven hours to ride it. Even if we spent an hour at rest stops (a long time) we would need to average 14 mph -- very doable even though we had serious climbs ahead of us. Doable because we had a long descent of Hamilton, which would help a lot, and long flat and fast stretches on Calaveras and Niles Canyon Roads. I kept looking up to road for Tom's white jersey, but didn't see him. I thought that for a guy with an empty tank he was riding awfully strongly and we weren't making up any ground on him in spite of our pretty decent pace.
We got to the foot of Hamilton at 2:40. Its lower section really didn't seem that bad. I was fairly comfortable in my 34x29 and the grade was no more than 6%. The road pitched up after a mile and the climb became a grind. Fifteen minutes into the climb we passed a sign that said the water stop is two miles ahead, meaning we were three miles from the top.
Just around the next bend, I see two cyclists squatting on the side of the road, their bikes on the ground. As I approach them, I see another bike near theirs and they are ministering to a fallen rider. As I get closer, I see it's Tom. He is lying on his back, not moving. OH SHIT! Jeff and I get off our bikes and walk over. The two guys are attempting to do CPR, but none of the four of us really knows what to do. S is saying he feels a pulse, but it's very, very rapid and very faint and Tom is not breathing. A SAG motorcycle arrives and calls 911 (our phones weren't working). The 911 operator calls Santa Clara County Sheriffs and talks us through CPR. M and S are taking turns pumping Tom's chest. There's fluid in Tom's lungs and he is not responding. This goes on nonstop for ten minutes, when the cops arrive and take over. We are "witnesses" and the cops want our statements, but they are busy with other stuff and then start talking to us, but never finish. They keep asking us the same questions, mostly our contact information. They want us to remain there until they interview us. The four of us are standing around in shock. None of us knows what to do. I don't feel like riding and I really don't like SAGing. Talk to Jeff and realize I want to be with my family, so that's the end of the ride. Riders pass. Some stop, most don't. Cops are pumping Tom's chest nonstop. About 40 minutes later, a helicopter from Stanford arrives and lands at the foot of the mountain. A CDF fireman ferries two emergency response nurses from the helicopter up the hill and they take over. One of the riders who had been doing CPR keeps complaining that he was on PR pace and now won't finish until 10:00 or 11:00. I think, "fuck you, asshole." Yup, someone dying can ruin your whole day. But I don't say anything because those thoughts and feelings are tempered by the fact that he was the guy doing CPR. Tom is still not responding. A fire truck and an ambulance arrive from San Jose around 4:00. It's too late. They declare him dead at 4:15.
SAGing back to the start takes forever. SAG driver, who has done this ride seven times and worked it many more, tells us we were on pace to finish at 8:30. The roads are winding and I'm feeling nauseous. We stop at three rest stops along the way. The news had reached some rest stop staff already, and the people who knew Tom are mourning. We finally reach San Ramon Marriott at 8:20. I picked up the bag of clothes I'd sent there in a bag from Morgan Territory rest stop and went home.
What an awful thing... What a tragic loss... I am so sad and angry.
.
I started at 5:00 and went with the front group through the flats of San Ramon and Danville on the way to Diablo climb. Really fast people start at 6:00. The pace was quick and manageable. I planned on a 1:15-1:20 ascent to reserve energy. I stuck to the plan while the entire group, with which I'd ridden to the foot of the climb, rode away. About a quarter of the way up, I caught Tom Milton, a friendly and funny man of 56, a very strong and smart rider, and the man behind Selle An-Atomica, a saddle I use on all my bikes. I'd met Tom two years ago, riding doubles, and we have been double century acquaintances, riding and talking together for decent stretches at a time whenever we saw each other -- our pacing is similar. We caught up for a few minutes, then I shared my ride plan with him. He heartily approved and said he'd be going slow-ish because he'd ridden a 400 km brevet a week earlier and his legs weren't feeling so great. "He would be a perfect riding companion," I thought, and asked him whether he minded company. He didn't, of course, and we climbed Diablo together through fields of California poppies and lupine, joking and chatting, as the sun rose over the hills rimming the eastern edge of Livermore Valley. A couple of other riders rode behind at our pace, listening to our banter and occasionally chiming in. Our group of four made it to the top comfortably.
I filled my bottles and went to the bathroom. Tom had left a few minutes before me. Descending, I kept looking for the 6:00 group. Last two years, I've seen them climbing Summit Rd., about half a mile above the saddle. This year I didn't see them. It was only 7:00 when I hit the saddle, good 10+ minutes earlier than previously. I really spent a lot less time at the rest stop this time. "Cool," I thought, "my strategy is working."
(descending Diablo)At the foot of the descent in Walnut Creek a brisk group coalesced and we worked well together, catching Tom in Clayton. More friendly bs on Marsh Creek Road to Morgan Territory. We climbed Morgan together, Tom entertaining us with tales from the very rainy 2007 edition of Paris-Brest-Paris (a mere 90-hour, 1200 km ride) and joyfully lied to us about where the top of the climb lay. Thus, we reached the second rest stop, legs feeling a bit softened by the ride's second major climb. Up to then my average speed was 14.2 mph. Fast descent and fast flats lay ahead, which boded well for a 9:00 arrival.
At the rest stop, I was held up in a bathroom line and Tom left a few minutes before me. I descended "The Plunge" that is the southern side of Morgan Territory Rd. to outskirts of Livermore. Usually, frontrunners from the 6:00 group catch me here and I can ride their wheels almost all the way to Patterson Pass. But I could see no riders ahead or behind, there was a gentle side/tail wind blowing, so it was time to work alone. I rode medium briskly, going 20-21 mph into the wind and 22-23 when the wind was with me. The roads outside Livermore are freshly repaved, which makes them are so much fun to ride. Soon I saw a pair of cyclists way off in the distance. I timed them from a turn they took and they were a 1:15 ahead. Assuming they were going at close to my speed, I didn't want to try to make up that kind of a gap, as it would take too much work. So, I continued going at my pace, taking time checks at every turn. The gap came down rather quickly and I caught them going through Livermore. There was a very good reason I caught them -- they were going 16 mph. I sat in the back of the paceline, resting a bit and wondering whether they'd start riding for real, but no, 16 mph was it.
After a couple of miles of such dawdling, at the intersection with Greenville Road, we joined the course of Wente Road Race, a group of racers went through the intersection just before us and I said to my companions, "that would be a fun paceline." One of them said sarcastically, "good luck catching them." "Fuck you," I thought and rode off, not so much in pursuit, but to return to my earlier pace. If I caught the peloton, all the better. I didn't catch the peloton and within two minutes found the sarcastic guy on my wheel. We rode together, swapping pulls at a decent clip for a few miles, the wind enthusiastically blowing us eastward, when we caught Tom, riding comfortably at 28 mph (it was that windy) side by side with another guy. We sat behind Tom and his companion, enjoying the draft and contributing to the conversation. Sean Smith's (see 2009 Central Coast Double report) group caught us just before the turnaround. They blew past us, but Sean decided to ride with us. Still, there was no sign of 6:00 starters.
Soon, we crossed I-580 and headed west toward Patterson Pass. Into the wind. I've written several times about how I detest Patterson: It's long, steep, and hot. Well, this year, thanks to the light wind, it wasn't hot. It was quite pleasant, actually, and because the road often hugs hillsides, some of the time we had wind shelters. So, it was breezy and cool and very comfortable. Our group swelled, as we caught a few people and a few others caught us. Sean was bemoaning his gearing -- he had a low of 25 in the back and was wishing for a 27. Tom needled Sean's choice of gearing and flaunted his 32-tooth rear cog. I took pictures of windmills spinning wildly.
Tom and I skipped the water stop a mile below the crest. The others stopped. The rest of the climb hurt, but not so much that we couldn't talk. I opened a bit of a gap near the top, descended the west side of Patterson, and turned right, where the DMD course rejoined the course of the Wente race. After a few minutes a couple of riders chasing the field passed me, I jumped on that mini-train and enjoyed a nearly 30 mph tow back to Livermore. On Vasco Road, I caught the remnants of Sean's old group and wheelsucked to Mines rest stop. The fastest of 6:00 starters showed up here.
Jeff Gould was at Mines. He messed up a wrist in a crash two weeks earlier and it was aching something fierce, so he was bagging it. Tom arrived a few minutes after me. I filled my bottles and hit the road. A few minutes later, Jeff came alongside, saying something to the effect "the hell with it" about his wrist and we rode together. Mines climb has never been kind to me. Always warm -- often way too warm -- and seemingly interminable. Jeff took it upon himself to pace me to a 9:00 finish. And I have to say, he was unbelievable. I rode harder than I would have alone and with my greater effort and the enormous benefit of his draft I rode much faster. The climbs were a bit of a struggle, but we arrived at the lunch stop at Junction Cafe at 1:05. My average speed was 15.1 I was at least 40 minutes earlier than on my prior DMD rides. Tom arrived at lunch 5-10 minutes later.
The three of us ate together. I had a Coke, chips, and a ham and turkey sandwich. I looked around the table and we were all having the same thing! It didn't seem like we dawdled, but when we checked the time, Jeff and I had been there over half an hour. It was time to get going. Tom said, "my tank is empty." I went to the bathroom -- another bathroom line. By the time I came out Tom was already on the road. Jeff and I left at 1:40.
We rode and rode on flats and rollers to the foot of Mt. Hamilton. The wind changed 180 degrees. Where we had a tailwind into the lunch stop, now we had a head wind. I checked the vital statistics at 2:00. We had 85 miles to go and seven hours to ride it. Even if we spent an hour at rest stops (a long time) we would need to average 14 mph -- very doable even though we had serious climbs ahead of us. Doable because we had a long descent of Hamilton, which would help a lot, and long flat and fast stretches on Calaveras and Niles Canyon Roads. I kept looking up to road for Tom's white jersey, but didn't see him. I thought that for a guy with an empty tank he was riding awfully strongly and we weren't making up any ground on him in spite of our pretty decent pace.
We got to the foot of Hamilton at 2:40. Its lower section really didn't seem that bad. I was fairly comfortable in my 34x29 and the grade was no more than 6%. The road pitched up after a mile and the climb became a grind. Fifteen minutes into the climb we passed a sign that said the water stop is two miles ahead, meaning we were three miles from the top.
Just around the next bend, I see two cyclists squatting on the side of the road, their bikes on the ground. As I approach them, I see another bike near theirs and they are ministering to a fallen rider. As I get closer, I see it's Tom. He is lying on his back, not moving. OH SHIT! Jeff and I get off our bikes and walk over. The two guys are attempting to do CPR, but none of the four of us really knows what to do. S is saying he feels a pulse, but it's very, very rapid and very faint and Tom is not breathing. A SAG motorcycle arrives and calls 911 (our phones weren't working). The 911 operator calls Santa Clara County Sheriffs and talks us through CPR. M and S are taking turns pumping Tom's chest. There's fluid in Tom's lungs and he is not responding. This goes on nonstop for ten minutes, when the cops arrive and take over. We are "witnesses" and the cops want our statements, but they are busy with other stuff and then start talking to us, but never finish. They keep asking us the same questions, mostly our contact information. They want us to remain there until they interview us. The four of us are standing around in shock. None of us knows what to do. I don't feel like riding and I really don't like SAGing. Talk to Jeff and realize I want to be with my family, so that's the end of the ride. Riders pass. Some stop, most don't. Cops are pumping Tom's chest nonstop. About 40 minutes later, a helicopter from Stanford arrives and lands at the foot of the mountain. A CDF fireman ferries two emergency response nurses from the helicopter up the hill and they take over. One of the riders who had been doing CPR keeps complaining that he was on PR pace and now won't finish until 10:00 or 11:00. I think, "fuck you, asshole." Yup, someone dying can ruin your whole day. But I don't say anything because those thoughts and feelings are tempered by the fact that he was the guy doing CPR. Tom is still not responding. A fire truck and an ambulance arrive from San Jose around 4:00. It's too late. They declare him dead at 4:15.
SAGing back to the start takes forever. SAG driver, who has done this ride seven times and worked it many more, tells us we were on pace to finish at 8:30. The roads are winding and I'm feeling nauseous. We stop at three rest stops along the way. The news had reached some rest stop staff already, and the people who knew Tom are mourning. We finally reach San Ramon Marriott at 8:20. I picked up the bag of clothes I'd sent there in a bag from Morgan Territory rest stop and went home.
What an awful thing... What a tragic loss... I am so sad and angry.
.
Friday, April 23, 2010
A Smarter DMD
Devil Mountain Double is tomorrow and the plan is for a smarter ride: Ride first 110 miles slower, thereby conserving energy and spending less time recovering at rest stops, thus arriving at lunch stop at Junction Cafe in roughly the same time, but feeling much fresher. That, in turn, would lead to less "rest" time at lunch and an earlier departure. Ride the second half faster if feeling good, arriving at the finish by 9:00. A great plan. Executing it will be a major challenge.
.
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Monday, April 19, 2010
A New Record as an Old Man
Nine years ago, when I was a young man of 38 and before my daughter was born, I set a personal record for climbing from home to the Skyline/Grizzly intersection in Oakland hills of 22:23 or 22:27 (13.3 mph), I can't remember which, honestly. Since I've become a father, I've broken 25 minutes only two or three times, not because I've gotten that much slower, but because I haven't been trying. Though I remember the last time when I broke 25 was pretty darn painful.
The climb starts with a very steep (~14%) block up Dulwich Street, then relents somewhat up Hermosa and Florence, then pitches up a bit on Broadway Terrace, before flattening and running mostly downhill through Lake Temescal Park for half a mile, then climbing Broadway along Highway 24 to Tunnel Road, which starts mellowly at ~2%, then steepens to 4-5% and continues as Skyline from halfway up the hill to the crest, where it intersects with Grizzly Peak Drive about 5.2 miles from my house.
On Saturday, April 17, after climbing Dulwich I looked at my rear wheel and realized that I climbed Dulwich in my 4th gear (normally I am in 1st or 2d) and the legs felt OK, so it was game on -- hamma' time! The Dulwich and Hermosa blocks got the legs nice and tight, but I was able to spin out the lactic acid on Florence and through Lake Temescal. I had tailwind going up Broadway, but where during my record effort I could gradually accelerate to 12 mph toward the top of the hill, I could only manage a steady and discouraging 10.6 from the park to the overpass at the top. Spun quickly along the flat Old Tunnel to the "new" Tunnel, turning right and going past the Firestorm Memorial, aka The 'Henge, standing up and riding aggressively in the big ring. I reached the 'Henge in 8 minutes, which compared well with my 7:40 pace during the 2001 record attempt.
With a 50-tooth big ring on my compact crank, the plan was to big ring it all the way to the top. On the lower and flatter parts of Tunnel I tried to keep my speed above 14 mph and go in 50x21. I was turning that gear pretty well without bogging down or hurting too much. I was on the right edge of muscular and cardiovascular discomfort to carry the effort to the top. I thought that with the 8-minute time to the 'Henge and my 14 mph pace I had a good shot at breaking 25 and began hoping cautiously to break 24.
After Tunnel became Skyline and the road pitched up, I shifted into the 23, but kept the gear going, then I seemed to stall just before Broadway Terrace intersection and the effort turned from a "time trial" into a "hard ride". I went at "hard ride" pace for about two-thirds of a mile, until the road pitched up again near the newly-cleared eucalyptus grove, where I got mad, stood up, and rode more aggressively. In this frame of mind I reached the last, false-flattish part of the course. I looked at my computer and it read "22:00!" There was about a quarter mile left and I had a legitimate shot at unexpectedly breaking 23:00. I turned it up as much as I could, but only managed a 1:07 the rest of the way, finishing in 23:07, with average speed of 13.1.
I'm both happy and bummed. Without the "hard pace" walkabout I would have broken 23:00, but hell, I haven't done a low 23 in nine years, so overall I'm happy with my time. I ended up riding another 11 miles, first along the ridge and then back down to go home, and ended up with a 16-mile ride with 16.8 mph average speed. I don't remember the last time I did a hilly local ride with that kind of average speed. Icing on the 23:07 cake.
P.S. On this ride, I wore a pair of knee-high white compression socks my father had given me a day earlier. I think the socks made little to no difference on this ride other than make me giggle internally about passing numerous cyclists while riding dressed dorky.
.
The climb starts with a very steep (~14%) block up Dulwich Street, then relents somewhat up Hermosa and Florence, then pitches up a bit on Broadway Terrace, before flattening and running mostly downhill through Lake Temescal Park for half a mile, then climbing Broadway along Highway 24 to Tunnel Road, which starts mellowly at ~2%, then steepens to 4-5% and continues as Skyline from halfway up the hill to the crest, where it intersects with Grizzly Peak Drive about 5.2 miles from my house.
On Saturday, April 17, after climbing Dulwich I looked at my rear wheel and realized that I climbed Dulwich in my 4th gear (normally I am in 1st or 2d) and the legs felt OK, so it was game on -- hamma' time! The Dulwich and Hermosa blocks got the legs nice and tight, but I was able to spin out the lactic acid on Florence and through Lake Temescal. I had tailwind going up Broadway, but where during my record effort I could gradually accelerate to 12 mph toward the top of the hill, I could only manage a steady and discouraging 10.6 from the park to the overpass at the top. Spun quickly along the flat Old Tunnel to the "new" Tunnel, turning right and going past the Firestorm Memorial, aka The 'Henge, standing up and riding aggressively in the big ring. I reached the 'Henge in 8 minutes, which compared well with my 7:40 pace during the 2001 record attempt.
With a 50-tooth big ring on my compact crank, the plan was to big ring it all the way to the top. On the lower and flatter parts of Tunnel I tried to keep my speed above 14 mph and go in 50x21. I was turning that gear pretty well without bogging down or hurting too much. I was on the right edge of muscular and cardiovascular discomfort to carry the effort to the top. I thought that with the 8-minute time to the 'Henge and my 14 mph pace I had a good shot at breaking 25 and began hoping cautiously to break 24.
After Tunnel became Skyline and the road pitched up, I shifted into the 23, but kept the gear going, then I seemed to stall just before Broadway Terrace intersection and the effort turned from a "time trial" into a "hard ride". I went at "hard ride" pace for about two-thirds of a mile, until the road pitched up again near the newly-cleared eucalyptus grove, where I got mad, stood up, and rode more aggressively. In this frame of mind I reached the last, false-flattish part of the course. I looked at my computer and it read "22:00!" There was about a quarter mile left and I had a legitimate shot at unexpectedly breaking 23:00. I turned it up as much as I could, but only managed a 1:07 the rest of the way, finishing in 23:07, with average speed of 13.1.
I'm both happy and bummed. Without the "hard pace" walkabout I would have broken 23:00, but hell, I haven't done a low 23 in nine years, so overall I'm happy with my time. I ended up riding another 11 miles, first along the ridge and then back down to go home, and ended up with a 16-mile ride with 16.8 mph average speed. I don't remember the last time I did a hilly local ride with that kind of average speed. Icing on the 23:07 cake.
P.S. On this ride, I wore a pair of knee-high white compression socks my father had given me a day earlier. I think the socks made little to no difference on this ride other than make me giggle internally about passing numerous cyclists while riding dressed dorky.
.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Double no. 13
Prologue
Solvang Spring Double would be the season-opening double century in 2010, as it was the prior two years. It's a good "training ride" for the much hillier doubles that follow. I'd put in a good amount of quality and quantity miles during the first three months of the year and was looking forward to a strong ride on the flat course of Solvang. Some of my quality training included big-ring rides over all sorts of terrain, so I decided to ride the entire double in the big ring -- a compact 50.
Chasing the Sunrise
I planned to start around 6:00 a.m., but gobs of spilled gel left me frantically rinsing out my jersey at 6:15. I ate and filled my bottles with Gatorade. Normally, I drink a large glass of water before a ride, but the empty bottle of Gatorade left me with a false impression that I'd drunk the whole thing and that, combined with the gel incident, I didn't drink nearly as much as usual. At 6:20 I headed to ride HQ at Buellton Marriott to get my number magic-markered. A group of 12-15 riders, including two tandems, was leaving just as I arrived at the hotel. It took about three minutes to get back on the bike and once I remounted I discovered that my headlight had burned out. Refusing to wait for people with lights and deeming natural light of early dawn sufficient, I set out on my own.
To chase the tandem group or ride at a medium pace waiting for a group? I chose the former, but knowing that the group would likely ride faster and that 193 miles lay ahead, I chased conservatively, riding about 18 mph into a light headwind, knowing that I wouldn't catch the group but may catch others with whom I'd be able to ride. Riders were few and far in between. I concluded that either they were swept up by the large group or started much earlier (or would start later) and were farther up the road. The riders I caught were riding slower than the pace I wanted to maintain, so I "morning-ed" them as I went by and kept on going. About 10 miles into the ride on a mellow rise (2-3%), I caught a group of 8 cyclists, which included the two tandems. The group was going appallingly slowly. Here I was, having chased for 35 minutes, about to make contact with the people with whom I'd wanted to ride, only to discover that the tandems would be of no use whatsoever. I took this as a personal affront -- these people owed me a draft after I spent 10 miles chasing, yet at 12 miles an hour there's virtually no draft and even if there is I didn't want it! So, more "mornings" and past them I went.
A few minutes later, I turned onto Highway 154 and saw well organized groups ahead and resumed my chase, only to discover, again, that they were riding too slowly. I passed 25 riders in a fell swoop and began climbing the first noticeable hill of the day in the big ring. I caught a man riding a fixed gear and struck up a conversation. He told me he'd be doing a 600km brevet on a fixed in two weeks. As we approached the top of the hill a fast group of three riders passed us and I quickly latched on. After the descent we turned onto Foxen Canyon Road, where two riders on bikes with aerobars fell back and I traded pulls with a man in his mid 50s with overdeveloped legs and a superlight bike. The aero pair passed us on the ensuing ascent and I latched onto their wheels for the very fast 12-mile drag into the first rest stop in Sisquoc. The huge-legged 50-something dropped back.
This stretch of road varies from flat to 2% downhill on a very well maintained stretch of road. My companions got on their aerobars, shifted into their 12s, and raised our cruising speed to 30+. My average speed, which had been 18.3 before the hammerfest, began climbing alarmingly quickly. Each of these guys took pulls at ~30 for minutes at a time without much visible strain. Neither breathed hard and neither bike wobbled from unduly hard efforts. I took one pull at 30 and managed to last for all of 40 seconds before dropping back. I skipped many turns because no way I could be of use in front at that speed and my pulling would have only slowed the group, so I just sat there, enjoying the ride. At one stretch, we covered five miles in 10:45 and none of it involved coasting. I took another pull a few miles later to give a break to the younger guy (late 30s), who was riding somewhat slower than his older but stronger friend (early 50s). We blew past single riders and groups large and small. I could see people turning around when they heard us coming and considering latching on and deciding not to because we were going too fast. By the time we reached the rest stop my average speed read 19.9. When we were half a block from the stop I said, "OK, I'll pull now," which my companions took in good humor.
Did You Drop That? And That?
I parked my bike and weighed my options: I knew a series of rollers was coming up about 5 miles down the road and trying to keep up with this pair going uphill would be suicidal. So, I decided to find other people to ride with. On the way into the rest stop we passed a Benicia Cycling Club ("BCC") group, who I thought would be good riding companions for their speed and well as their group riding skills. I went to check out rest stop fare when I saw Pete and Narda, life members of Berkeley Bicycle Club, whom I've known since the early 1990s. They were on their way out of the rest stop, but I wanted to ride with them and still had plenty of yet-unspilled and uneaten gel, so I skipped rest stop food, filled my bottle and left with them, about 3 minutes after I arrived.
We left with a group of 4 riders who were going at a comfortable, wind-aided 23mph. This was as close to a fast recovery ride as one can come. We rode, we chatted, we kept our noses out of the wind, and my average speed hit 20.0(!). This was Narda's first double, while Pete was taking a shortcut and riding 100. In fact, Pete's shortcut came within a few miles, and the group rolled on. Soon, we turned into the wind, rollers came, and riding became more aggressive. Reaching for food, I lost a blinky light I'd stashed in my pocket. The light shattered on impact -- another in a growing series of the day's mishaps. We lost Narda after she got caught out at a left turn before an uphill. I waited for her a few minutes, but she was some 100 yards back, so I decided to be selfish and chased the group, which by now was close to a quarter-mile ahead, riding with a tailwind. This was harder chasing than chasing the phantom tandems, but I finally caught them coming into Arroyo Grande. As our group climbed a slight hill along a frontage road of Highway 101, a man riding in a group in front of ours swerved for no apparent reason and went down in a heap into a ditch. There was no wheel touch or anything else discernable that spooked him into that fall. He was uninjured, we shrugged and rode on.
Outside Nipomo, the BCC team caught us and we started riding with them. A few miles later, the aero pair passed us, but I let them go. Our group sped up a few miles before the second rest stop near San Luis Obispo and I managed to drop a bottle at 27 mph. No going back. The 13th double was living up to its unlucky number.
I needed a replacement bottle, alas at the rest stop there was none. But they had an empty 12-ounce gel bottle, which fit perfectly into my cage. Back in business! Fill the bottles and flasks -- the only gel flavors available are Huckleberry and Orange. I don't like Orange, so Huckleberry it'll be. Peel off the base layer, cap, long gloves, knee warmers. Pockets bulging, it's time to head off again.
This Blows!
Riding through San Luis Obispo I passed about a dozen cyclists. Leaving the town, I was flagged down by a guy holding a rear wheel and an exploded CO2 cartridge. He's out of cartridges -- WTF is he doing riding a double century with one cartridge and no pump? I told him I've no cartridges. He asked to borrow my pump. I gave him my pump. I stood there, watching him pump and watching cyclists pass by. Competitve juices made me mad I stopped and I thought, "no good deed goes unpunished." Superego made me embarrassed I was mad. He finished pumping and I started riding. Passed the people I'd passed earlier who passed me while I waited for the guy with the flat.
Turning right onto Highway 1 for a long drag to the turnaruond point at Morro Bay, I had an "oh shit" moment: tailwind. Tailwind going northbound on 1 meant headwind on the return leg and since the wind strengthens through the afternoon, the rest of the day did not look so promising. Well, might as well enjoy the tailwind. This was the first time I rode this portion of 1 alone, the two previous rides I was in large fast groups, but my speed was comparable to those on the other rides because they had been into headwinds. Amazingly, in 12 miles of riding this stretch of road I saw only two cyclists.
Tailwinds notwithstanding, I was feeling peaked. I discovered that Huckleberry flavor of Hammer gel tastes like ... Yuckleberry, but without alternatives it would have to do. It occurred to me that I hadn't gone to the bathroom since I left my hotel room and was dehydrated. Also realized I'd only been eating gel and concluded that this wasn't going to be enough. I took a couple of bites of an energy bar. Several months ago, I talked to a man who is a big fan of Hammer energy products. He suggested to chew Endurolyte caps rather than swallow them for an energy boost when things aren't going well. OK, let's try that. I popped three caps into my mouth and began chewing. Ever chew salt dust? My mouth was coated in salt dust. I am not sure whether it's chewing the caps that provides the energy boost or the large volume of water one must consume to rinse out the mouth, but the combined effect of electolytes and water was positive -- maybe I just liked not having a salty mouth and riding with a tailwind -- and I reached Morro Bay in reasonably good spirits.
Morro Rock, a California landmark.
I got my number magic-markered and turned south into a hadwind. Rode through Morro Bay and turned onto rural roads. It occurred to me that stopping to refill the bottles and eating something more substantial than Yuckleberry gel would have been a good idea, but I detest stopping, so I soldiered on. Traffic, a few small hills, road surface, and deconditioning combined to an inevitable and continuous drop of my average speed, which in Morro Bay was 19.4 mph. I continued battling the wind, the hills, and the tiring legs, but 16-17 mph was about all I could muster. Still riding alone. Where is everybody? Eighty-five miles lay ahead and barring a huge second wind, this ride would be about perseverance rather than speed. I hoped to make it to the lunch stop in San Luis Obispo with 19.0 mph average, but it dropped to 18.9. Quads quivering, I pulled into the lunch stop.
I greeted Jason, Mike and Ken, who were riding on fixed geared bikes and were dealing with their own cramping. Quivering subsided in five minutes. Mindful of prior lunch experiences, I ate only innards of a ham-turkey-cheese sandwich, drank one and half cokes, popped more pills, and left. Rode through San Luis Obispo and turned into a headwind toward Avila Beach, riding a frontage road along 101. It's windy and getting warmer and the legs aren't so great. Was hoping I'll catch up with the fixed-gear group and ride with them, figuring they are going at a comfortable pace. Came to the end of the frontage road, turned right toward Avila Beach. There's a roller, I stood up and promptly cramped in the left quad and right arch. Thus, at mile 125, ended the double-century-in-the-big-ring experiment. At least I'd done a metric double century in the big ring. The cramps subsided and I rolled into Avila Beach, then Shell beach, riding along Shell Beach Road, which offered wonderful views of the Pacific and bikini-clad coeds on spring break. Welcome distractions from the pain and the heat.
Are Those Cleats or Cramp-ons You Have On?
A few miles later the BCC group caught up with me. I decided to ride with them just to get the ride over with quicker -- there was no question of enjoying the rest of this double. So, I jumped on the paceline, riding harder than I would have preferred, but quite a bit faster than I could have on my own. We came to the second appreciable climb of the ride and I let the group go. After I crested, a pair of riders caught up with me, looking about as well as I was feeling. I joined forces with them and we managed to work together surprisingly effectively given our "sensations," riding around 18 in headwinds and crosswinds for the next eight miles into Guadalupe rest stop. Finally, caught the fixed-gear group, the catch made easier by the fact that they were sitting at the rest stop. Again, ate only pills, refilled the bottles and left with BCC group.
Rode with them for a while, then cramped and fell out of the paceline just as we were about to hit the long 18-mile drag on Highways 1 and 135. Those are not fun places to ride -- mostly flat, with uphills slight enough to slow you down significantly if you're tired, with downhills on the other side slight enough to not allow you to gain significant speed. At least there was a mild tailwind, so I managed to plod along at 15-16, I guess. "I guess" because my computed conked out but it could have been slower ... for sure, couldn't have been faster. Cramps kept coming and going in all sorts of new places in addition to the usual ones: toes, arch, top of the foot. Tried stretching out the arch, but that meant flexing the shin, so the shin cramped. Learned to pedal with the foot in a neutral position to avoid flexing the arch and the shin. There was lots of pedaling and coasting. Standing up to stretch meant quads and arch cramping, so I avoided that. One person passed me. I saw no other riders. What the hell happened to the 500+ who'd signed up for the ride?
Approaching the last rest stop 17 miles from the finish I decided not to stop. I still had plenty of Yuckleberry and most of a bottle of water. Getting off the bike would mean serious cramping and spending at least half an hour at the rest stop to recover from the cramps and would provide no guarantees against cramping during the rest of the ride. There was another reason not to stop: by continuing to ride I would pass some of the guys who'd dropped me but stopped at the rest stop. If all worked out OK, I'd finish ahead of them. Because, let's face it, while our egos are stroked by average speeds, the only thing that REALLY counts is who finished first. I rolled past the rest stop and the entire six-man BCC group was there.
I Think I Can
Immediately after the rest stop, the course turns right onto Centennial Street to a three-mile climb up to Drum Canyon. I quickly found myself in my 34x27, slogging through fields of poppies and fighting off cramps. I was truly a shadow of the rider who'd started the ride 177 miles earlier:
Three guys passed me on the way up. The climb crests after a left-hand bend and there's a cattle grate at the top. After 15 minutes of climbing I started hoping that the next left would be it. There were about 4 turns too many, but I wasn't going to get off the bike. The feeling at the top was a mixture of elation and relief, mostly relief. Down I went, but wait, cramps in a new place -- both hip flexors. Stretching hip flexors on a twisty, bouncy, and potholed descent was quite an adventure and gave me cramps in other places. Finally, when the cramps went away, I realized just how bouncy this descent is. The bike shook more the more I tried to control it. Relaxing the grip and moving the hands from the drops to brake hoods provided some relief, but the bike was still bucking as if it were a rodeo bull. That ended soon enough. I rode through the slight downhill/tailwind portion of Drum Canyon, turned left onto Highway 246 and its final six miles downwind into Buellton. This section seems to be the fastest six miles ever even when I'm wasted. There was no one behind me and no one ahead that I could see. There was no reason to hammer to try to catch anyone and no reason to ride hard to stay in front of anyone. But I found a reason to ride hard anyway: finishing in under 11:30. I managed 11:25, which accounts for the smile on my face at the finish.
Lessons learned: Eat and drink better, you fool! And I absolutely think this ride is doable in the big ring.
.
Solvang Spring Double would be the season-opening double century in 2010, as it was the prior two years. It's a good "training ride" for the much hillier doubles that follow. I'd put in a good amount of quality and quantity miles during the first three months of the year and was looking forward to a strong ride on the flat course of Solvang. Some of my quality training included big-ring rides over all sorts of terrain, so I decided to ride the entire double in the big ring -- a compact 50.
Chasing the Sunrise
I planned to start around 6:00 a.m., but gobs of spilled gel left me frantically rinsing out my jersey at 6:15. I ate and filled my bottles with Gatorade. Normally, I drink a large glass of water before a ride, but the empty bottle of Gatorade left me with a false impression that I'd drunk the whole thing and that, combined with the gel incident, I didn't drink nearly as much as usual. At 6:20 I headed to ride HQ at Buellton Marriott to get my number magic-markered. A group of 12-15 riders, including two tandems, was leaving just as I arrived at the hotel. It took about three minutes to get back on the bike and once I remounted I discovered that my headlight had burned out. Refusing to wait for people with lights and deeming natural light of early dawn sufficient, I set out on my own.
To chase the tandem group or ride at a medium pace waiting for a group? I chose the former, but knowing that the group would likely ride faster and that 193 miles lay ahead, I chased conservatively, riding about 18 mph into a light headwind, knowing that I wouldn't catch the group but may catch others with whom I'd be able to ride. Riders were few and far in between. I concluded that either they were swept up by the large group or started much earlier (or would start later) and were farther up the road. The riders I caught were riding slower than the pace I wanted to maintain, so I "morning-ed" them as I went by and kept on going. About 10 miles into the ride on a mellow rise (2-3%), I caught a group of 8 cyclists, which included the two tandems. The group was going appallingly slowly. Here I was, having chased for 35 minutes, about to make contact with the people with whom I'd wanted to ride, only to discover that the tandems would be of no use whatsoever. I took this as a personal affront -- these people owed me a draft after I spent 10 miles chasing, yet at 12 miles an hour there's virtually no draft and even if there is I didn't want it! So, more "mornings" and past them I went.
A few minutes later, I turned onto Highway 154 and saw well organized groups ahead and resumed my chase, only to discover, again, that they were riding too slowly. I passed 25 riders in a fell swoop and began climbing the first noticeable hill of the day in the big ring. I caught a man riding a fixed gear and struck up a conversation. He told me he'd be doing a 600km brevet on a fixed in two weeks. As we approached the top of the hill a fast group of three riders passed us and I quickly latched on. After the descent we turned onto Foxen Canyon Road, where two riders on bikes with aerobars fell back and I traded pulls with a man in his mid 50s with overdeveloped legs and a superlight bike. The aero pair passed us on the ensuing ascent and I latched onto their wheels for the very fast 12-mile drag into the first rest stop in Sisquoc. The huge-legged 50-something dropped back.
This stretch of road varies from flat to 2% downhill on a very well maintained stretch of road. My companions got on their aerobars, shifted into their 12s, and raised our cruising speed to 30+. My average speed, which had been 18.3 before the hammerfest, began climbing alarmingly quickly. Each of these guys took pulls at ~30 for minutes at a time without much visible strain. Neither breathed hard and neither bike wobbled from unduly hard efforts. I took one pull at 30 and managed to last for all of 40 seconds before dropping back. I skipped many turns because no way I could be of use in front at that speed and my pulling would have only slowed the group, so I just sat there, enjoying the ride. At one stretch, we covered five miles in 10:45 and none of it involved coasting. I took another pull a few miles later to give a break to the younger guy (late 30s), who was riding somewhat slower than his older but stronger friend (early 50s). We blew past single riders and groups large and small. I could see people turning around when they heard us coming and considering latching on and deciding not to because we were going too fast. By the time we reached the rest stop my average speed read 19.9. When we were half a block from the stop I said, "OK, I'll pull now," which my companions took in good humor.
Did You Drop That? And That?
I parked my bike and weighed my options: I knew a series of rollers was coming up about 5 miles down the road and trying to keep up with this pair going uphill would be suicidal. So, I decided to find other people to ride with. On the way into the rest stop we passed a Benicia Cycling Club ("BCC") group, who I thought would be good riding companions for their speed and well as their group riding skills. I went to check out rest stop fare when I saw Pete and Narda, life members of Berkeley Bicycle Club, whom I've known since the early 1990s. They were on their way out of the rest stop, but I wanted to ride with them and still had plenty of yet-unspilled and uneaten gel, so I skipped rest stop food, filled my bottle and left with them, about 3 minutes after I arrived.
We left with a group of 4 riders who were going at a comfortable, wind-aided 23mph. This was as close to a fast recovery ride as one can come. We rode, we chatted, we kept our noses out of the wind, and my average speed hit 20.0(!). This was Narda's first double, while Pete was taking a shortcut and riding 100. In fact, Pete's shortcut came within a few miles, and the group rolled on. Soon, we turned into the wind, rollers came, and riding became more aggressive. Reaching for food, I lost a blinky light I'd stashed in my pocket. The light shattered on impact -- another in a growing series of the day's mishaps. We lost Narda after she got caught out at a left turn before an uphill. I waited for her a few minutes, but she was some 100 yards back, so I decided to be selfish and chased the group, which by now was close to a quarter-mile ahead, riding with a tailwind. This was harder chasing than chasing the phantom tandems, but I finally caught them coming into Arroyo Grande. As our group climbed a slight hill along a frontage road of Highway 101, a man riding in a group in front of ours swerved for no apparent reason and went down in a heap into a ditch. There was no wheel touch or anything else discernable that spooked him into that fall. He was uninjured, we shrugged and rode on.
Outside Nipomo, the BCC team caught us and we started riding with them. A few miles later, the aero pair passed us, but I let them go. Our group sped up a few miles before the second rest stop near San Luis Obispo and I managed to drop a bottle at 27 mph. No going back. The 13th double was living up to its unlucky number.
I needed a replacement bottle, alas at the rest stop there was none. But they had an empty 12-ounce gel bottle, which fit perfectly into my cage. Back in business! Fill the bottles and flasks -- the only gel flavors available are Huckleberry and Orange. I don't like Orange, so Huckleberry it'll be. Peel off the base layer, cap, long gloves, knee warmers. Pockets bulging, it's time to head off again.
This Blows!
Riding through San Luis Obispo I passed about a dozen cyclists. Leaving the town, I was flagged down by a guy holding a rear wheel and an exploded CO2 cartridge. He's out of cartridges -- WTF is he doing riding a double century with one cartridge and no pump? I told him I've no cartridges. He asked to borrow my pump. I gave him my pump. I stood there, watching him pump and watching cyclists pass by. Competitve juices made me mad I stopped and I thought, "no good deed goes unpunished." Superego made me embarrassed I was mad. He finished pumping and I started riding. Passed the people I'd passed earlier who passed me while I waited for the guy with the flat.
Turning right onto Highway 1 for a long drag to the turnaruond point at Morro Bay, I had an "oh shit" moment: tailwind. Tailwind going northbound on 1 meant headwind on the return leg and since the wind strengthens through the afternoon, the rest of the day did not look so promising. Well, might as well enjoy the tailwind. This was the first time I rode this portion of 1 alone, the two previous rides I was in large fast groups, but my speed was comparable to those on the other rides because they had been into headwinds. Amazingly, in 12 miles of riding this stretch of road I saw only two cyclists.
Tailwinds notwithstanding, I was feeling peaked. I discovered that Huckleberry flavor of Hammer gel tastes like ... Yuckleberry, but without alternatives it would have to do. It occurred to me that I hadn't gone to the bathroom since I left my hotel room and was dehydrated. Also realized I'd only been eating gel and concluded that this wasn't going to be enough. I took a couple of bites of an energy bar. Several months ago, I talked to a man who is a big fan of Hammer energy products. He suggested to chew Endurolyte caps rather than swallow them for an energy boost when things aren't going well. OK, let's try that. I popped three caps into my mouth and began chewing. Ever chew salt dust? My mouth was coated in salt dust. I am not sure whether it's chewing the caps that provides the energy boost or the large volume of water one must consume to rinse out the mouth, but the combined effect of electolytes and water was positive -- maybe I just liked not having a salty mouth and riding with a tailwind -- and I reached Morro Bay in reasonably good spirits.
Morro Rock, a California landmark.I got my number magic-markered and turned south into a hadwind. Rode through Morro Bay and turned onto rural roads. It occurred to me that stopping to refill the bottles and eating something more substantial than Yuckleberry gel would have been a good idea, but I detest stopping, so I soldiered on. Traffic, a few small hills, road surface, and deconditioning combined to an inevitable and continuous drop of my average speed, which in Morro Bay was 19.4 mph. I continued battling the wind, the hills, and the tiring legs, but 16-17 mph was about all I could muster. Still riding alone. Where is everybody? Eighty-five miles lay ahead and barring a huge second wind, this ride would be about perseverance rather than speed. I hoped to make it to the lunch stop in San Luis Obispo with 19.0 mph average, but it dropped to 18.9. Quads quivering, I pulled into the lunch stop.
I greeted Jason, Mike and Ken, who were riding on fixed geared bikes and were dealing with their own cramping. Quivering subsided in five minutes. Mindful of prior lunch experiences, I ate only innards of a ham-turkey-cheese sandwich, drank one and half cokes, popped more pills, and left. Rode through San Luis Obispo and turned into a headwind toward Avila Beach, riding a frontage road along 101. It's windy and getting warmer and the legs aren't so great. Was hoping I'll catch up with the fixed-gear group and ride with them, figuring they are going at a comfortable pace. Came to the end of the frontage road, turned right toward Avila Beach. There's a roller, I stood up and promptly cramped in the left quad and right arch. Thus, at mile 125, ended the double-century-in-the-big-ring experiment. At least I'd done a metric double century in the big ring. The cramps subsided and I rolled into Avila Beach, then Shell beach, riding along Shell Beach Road, which offered wonderful views of the Pacific and bikini-clad coeds on spring break. Welcome distractions from the pain and the heat.
Are Those Cleats or Cramp-ons You Have On?
A few miles later the BCC group caught up with me. I decided to ride with them just to get the ride over with quicker -- there was no question of enjoying the rest of this double. So, I jumped on the paceline, riding harder than I would have preferred, but quite a bit faster than I could have on my own. We came to the second appreciable climb of the ride and I let the group go. After I crested, a pair of riders caught up with me, looking about as well as I was feeling. I joined forces with them and we managed to work together surprisingly effectively given our "sensations," riding around 18 in headwinds and crosswinds for the next eight miles into Guadalupe rest stop. Finally, caught the fixed-gear group, the catch made easier by the fact that they were sitting at the rest stop. Again, ate only pills, refilled the bottles and left with BCC group.
Rode with them for a while, then cramped and fell out of the paceline just as we were about to hit the long 18-mile drag on Highways 1 and 135. Those are not fun places to ride -- mostly flat, with uphills slight enough to slow you down significantly if you're tired, with downhills on the other side slight enough to not allow you to gain significant speed. At least there was a mild tailwind, so I managed to plod along at 15-16, I guess. "I guess" because my computed conked out but it could have been slower ... for sure, couldn't have been faster. Cramps kept coming and going in all sorts of new places in addition to the usual ones: toes, arch, top of the foot. Tried stretching out the arch, but that meant flexing the shin, so the shin cramped. Learned to pedal with the foot in a neutral position to avoid flexing the arch and the shin. There was lots of pedaling and coasting. Standing up to stretch meant quads and arch cramping, so I avoided that. One person passed me. I saw no other riders. What the hell happened to the 500+ who'd signed up for the ride?
Approaching the last rest stop 17 miles from the finish I decided not to stop. I still had plenty of Yuckleberry and most of a bottle of water. Getting off the bike would mean serious cramping and spending at least half an hour at the rest stop to recover from the cramps and would provide no guarantees against cramping during the rest of the ride. There was another reason not to stop: by continuing to ride I would pass some of the guys who'd dropped me but stopped at the rest stop. If all worked out OK, I'd finish ahead of them. Because, let's face it, while our egos are stroked by average speeds, the only thing that REALLY counts is who finished first. I rolled past the rest stop and the entire six-man BCC group was there.
I Think I Can
Immediately after the rest stop, the course turns right onto Centennial Street to a three-mile climb up to Drum Canyon. I quickly found myself in my 34x27, slogging through fields of poppies and fighting off cramps. I was truly a shadow of the rider who'd started the ride 177 miles earlier:
Three guys passed me on the way up. The climb crests after a left-hand bend and there's a cattle grate at the top. After 15 minutes of climbing I started hoping that the next left would be it. There were about 4 turns too many, but I wasn't going to get off the bike. The feeling at the top was a mixture of elation and relief, mostly relief. Down I went, but wait, cramps in a new place -- both hip flexors. Stretching hip flexors on a twisty, bouncy, and potholed descent was quite an adventure and gave me cramps in other places. Finally, when the cramps went away, I realized just how bouncy this descent is. The bike shook more the more I tried to control it. Relaxing the grip and moving the hands from the drops to brake hoods provided some relief, but the bike was still bucking as if it were a rodeo bull. That ended soon enough. I rode through the slight downhill/tailwind portion of Drum Canyon, turned left onto Highway 246 and its final six miles downwind into Buellton. This section seems to be the fastest six miles ever even when I'm wasted. There was no one behind me and no one ahead that I could see. There was no reason to hammer to try to catch anyone and no reason to ride hard to stay in front of anyone. But I found a reason to ride hard anyway: finishing in under 11:30. I managed 11:25, which accounts for the smile on my face at the finish.
Lessons learned: Eat and drink better, you fool! And I absolutely think this ride is doable in the big ring.
.
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