Great Expectations: Existential Relativism and How a Win Changes Everything

On Sunday I pulled 4th place in the Socal Cross Prestige series cat 4 race. Just a couple months ago this would have been a big event. MMS text messages would have been sent around with images of the results, calls made home proudly reporting the great news. A residual high would have gotten me through an other wise gloomy Sunday evening and motivated a Monday. Not today though. Today, 4th place seems... not that great. Not after standing atop the podium last week as number 1.

Some time back when I was freelancing at Universal Sports on the 09 Giro d'Italia, I formed a negative opinion of sprinting sensation Mark Cavendish after he did an embarrassing performance on the race leaders podium at the end of stage 3. After donning the maglia rosa (pink jersey) and retaining his lead in the over all, the obnoxious prat could barely muster the enthusiasm to uncork his double magnum of preseco to make the obligatory spray onto the crowd. I couldn't believe the amount of disrespect this guy was showing. He looked like a spoiled little boy who got the wrong present on Christmas day. As a fan of professional cycling any subsequent win from Cavendish seemed hollow to me. Yeah, so he's the fastest guy out there, but his attitude sucks. As I'm no Anglophile to begin with, I've come to enjoy seeing the guy loose. At least then he's got something to cry about.


This weekend however I gained a small insight into what motivates his embarrassing behavior. Once you've won a race - anything less than that feels empty. Before winning, I never used to understand why guys seem disappointed with second or third. But once you've crossed that threshold your point of view is rearranged. The lens from which a winner see the world has a narrow focal point, where being number one exists in sharp and vivid contrast, while second and third place are background elements, softly focused and less appealing.

Take for example this image from the cover of last month's issue Velo News. This is a guy who's not used to being second to anyone in the Tour de France, finding himself of the third step of the podium. The look says a lot about reward and expectations. To come back at the top of the sport after four years and even be on the podium of the Tour is an amazing accomplishment, but for him clearly not enough.

How does one ever adjust to anything less than the best after being a winner? Is there ever a way back to mediocrity, where a good finish is good enough? Perhaps there isn't. Once you crossed though the winner's door there is no going back. It explains a lot about why many winning athletes make "comebacks." For me, the important thing is to try maintain perspective - so yeah I've won a race. I just need to make sure that win continues to fuel my motivation to train hard and win again.

Video From This Saturday's Race

Ken Scott, one of the guys I raced with this weekend had mounted a small solid state camera on his bike and posted a clip of the race's first lap to his Vimeo page. While I'm not featured in the clip there is some great footage of my teammate, Jerry Sanders.

I ended getting 10th place in this one.

Mens 35+ 3/4 race 9/19/09 SoCal Prestige series #1 from ken scott on Vimeo.

Cyclocross '45

Amazing

This should have been required reading

I was catching up on pro cycling news at velonews this afternoon when a banner ad caught my eye. Even though I'm one of those people who intentionally clicks through ads on sites that I like just to support them this one caught my eye.


If you're here at the Blog then you already know the theme is about racing bikes in Belgium. So you can imagine my surprise to see an ad for a book about a guy who went to race in there for real. Not like the adventure tourist and blogger I am, but the real deal. A young guy who went there to make it as a pro racer at 18 years old. It's very raw and gritty - talks about things that I heard rumblings of but never saw first hand. It affirms the innuendo and suspicion I felt there about drugs in Belgian amateur bike racing and includes a foreword by Bike racing legend Bob Roll.



Best of all the first chapter is free as a .pdf

First Place: Urban Cyclocross #1 Cat 4 Race report.

Having pretty much given it everything I had the day before at Bonelli park in 2 cross races, I wasn't sure there was going to be much in the tank for another two race day on Sunday. I didn't sleep that well due to soreness in muscles and I even woke up once needing to make an Advil run to the bathroom. Not the ideal start for what was going to be one of my best days on the bike ever.

After getting in a good warm-up on the course and keeping my legs opened up on the trainer, I was feeling pretty good at the start line. The guys around me looked pretty fit so I knew I had to be fast off the line and be the first one to the turn into the grassy section. It was made up of very tight S turns around trees and the ground was loose with pine needles and big lumpy tree roots. At the whistle I gunned it off the line and quickly jumped out ahead of the pack and was the first one to get to the grassy turn. As my back wheel left the pavement I realized that I made the turn too early and was off the course! The organizers hadn't done a good job marking the first turn, and now I was going out of bounds and and nearly everyone followed me. All at once brakes were locking up and guys were cursing. I had not only made a mess of the race, but lost my good position going into the turn. Now I was four wheels off of the front and had ground to make up. I easily passed my number 3 and 2 riders at the first dismount and climb. After a smooth remount I dropped both of them quickly. The guy out front was another matter completely.

In the confusion of the start he was able to open up a big gap of about 1oo or so meters and looked to be motoring along pretty well. Being new to cross judging distance between opponents can be tricky. Because the courses snake back upon themselves enemy riders can at times seem closer or farther than they actually are at different points along the way. Being unsure of his real distance, I just stayed on the gas concentrating on not falling down. The gap didn't look like it was getting any smaller and before the first lap was even over I was already beginning to mentally settle for second place. And then he cracked. As if the air went out of his balloon he collapsed in on himself. As we ended the last grassy chicane before the long paved stretch back to the start line I was on his rear wheel. The timing was perfect - the one section of the course where drafting could be an advantage, and I was there on the wheel of the number one guy taking a long break before things got hard again.

Past the start finish line and into the first grassy obstacle I punched past him just as the second lap began. Gaps open quickly in cross it seems, and suddenly I was out front in the leading the race. While warming up before the race I had imagined this exact scenario. Me alone at the front of the race. I'd never been there before, and I was telling myself, "This is where you belong." And it was. I was putting big distance in to my closest rival.

At the second dismount obstacle, I was jumping back onto the saddle when I felt my left foot catch somewhere on my rear wheel. There was a sharp pang that sounded like a spoke. Brief rolling pause and the wheel felt OK so I got back on the power down a short hill into a 180 degree hairpin over hellish tree roots. Pulled the rear brake lever and my stomach sank as it snapped dead to the bars. My rear break was out of commission. I decided to press on. If I couldn't get through the next lap smoothly I'd stop to fix the break. There was no stopping. Four more laps and I began lapping the stragglers. I started to think about how I'd cross the line. Zip up the jersey, arms up, maybe with dual number 1 fingers... It wasn't over though. I had to keep the pressure on.

And then it happened. I won my first race after three years of trying - by a lot - completely solo. I looked back just to be sure, then zipped up the jersey as mentally rehearsed. Then promptly fell apart as I crossed the line. Shouting and cursing - clapping my hands. Clapping my hands? That was never in the plan. I was like Edvald Boassan-Hagen after his win at the rainy stage of the Giro d'Italia this year. No composure. But I won.

Later when talking to the second place guy he admitted that he'd never been at the lead of a race. He felt like he would be better off following a wheel around the course. He didn't tell himself that he belonged there, and so... he didn't.

Anti-Sandbagging: The Ethical Work-Around to Racing Success

Everyone hates a sandbagger. Nothing is more frustrating in competitive racing than being beaten time and time again by the same person who refuses to upgrade to the next category even though they have more than enough points for a mandatory upgrade. There is one such character who plagued my Cat III racing this year here in southern California. In every criterium I raced against him this year he finished with either a win or a top 3 finish - without fail. So sweet the intoxicating elixir of victory is that one would elect to hang back in the easier divisions to steal away the wins. I won't mention his name directly - only parenthetically (Jack Oh) so as not to incur the wrath of a libel suit. I however will offer a preemptive apology to (Jack Oh) if he finally grew tired of his cheap and stolen winners high and actually got around that Cat II upgrade. Where by the way the level of road racing difficultly is an order of magnitude more difficult than that of Cat III. The races are longer and faster, and that category if often combined with Cat I and Professional racers. Take that (Jack Oh).

Since this Blog isn't about (Jack Oh) it's about me, I wanted to take some time discussing my more ethical work-around on the topic of sandbagging. I've briefly considered making a run at the Cat II upgrade myself as I'm just 10 points away. But I, unlike the a fore mentioned parenthetical antagonist (Jack Oh) I have hardly been stealing candy from babies. In fact, this year has been without a winners high of my own. A few top 10 finishes but none of the adrenalin fueled, drunken swagger that accompanies a podium finish. There is a way however I can sip upon the electric pap of victory again.... CYCLOCROSS!

For the uninitiated, here an example of what cyclocross is all about:



While Southern California features very little mud as it pretty much doesn't rain here, the tenor of the CX scene is ubiquitous. Laid back and more "fun" than road racing. And therein lies my plan to exploit the system. The fine and intelligent folks at USA cycling have wisely decided that racing categories be separated out across disciplines. As such, no matter where you are as a road rider, you'll have to start at the beginning category in cyclocross, mountain bike, track racing, or BMX for that matter. It's not sandbagging if you're "required" to race in the easier category, is it?

So my plan, simply distilled, is to use my superior Cat III fintess and apply it to beginner cyclocross racing and once again quaff down the addictive nectar of victory! Then when I've reached the requisite number of races or points, I'll take the highroad as make my upgrade as required by the rules of the sport. Genius, no?

This of course supposes that "Cat III road fitness" actually applies in any tangible way to cyclocross. It could turn out that I have no gift for the new game. A surprise lack of coordination or congenital clumsiness could derail my plan for small pond domination. But I won't dwell on all that. If nothing else I'm in good shape and I like winning. So when I've harvested all the low hanging fruit from the cyclocross tree, I'll move on to a different cycling orchard, targeting track and then mountain biking. Thus guaranteeing at least 2 more years of cross discipline podium finishes and rationalized gratification.

I Stand Corrected

A brief correction to yesterday's update. You'll recall that I witnessed a "guy" inexplicably fall down at the end of the Lance ride. Well it turns out that that guy was actually a "girl," and her fall had a perfectly reasonable explanation. One of my teammates was right there and offers this account:


Jim: For the record, the "guy" that crashed at the end of the ride was a girl. She went down right next to be. I believe it was an over-eager photographer that caught her bars when he leaned out for a pic.

It's strange that I didn't make the connection between the photographers and the crash. Although thinking back, I do remember them dodging out of the way at the last second as we pulled back into the Zoo parking lot.

Hell, it's even happened to Lance!

I Rode with Lance this Morning (Along with 2000 of our closest friends)

It's not every day that the biggest sports celebrity on the planet sends out a tweet saying:

@lancearmstrong Hey LA - get out of your cars and get on your bikes. Time to ride. 7:30 tomorrow am. Griffith Park, LA Zoo parking lot. See you there..

Does Lebron James say, "Come on down to the Staples Center and shoot some hoops with me, or does Manny Remirez beckon, "hey baseball fans let's all hangout at Dodger Stadium and play three flies up?" No they don't, but Lance did exactly that yesterday afternoon. And while I had to do a double take at the tweet, the opportunity was too good to pass up. Griffith Park is a 20 minute ride from my house.

Here's a clip of the ride along with the madness that ensued afterwords.

My Ride with Lance from Litterbox on Vimeo.

I apologize for the riding clips not being as good as some of my work from Europe but riding no handed, facing backwards with a camera in front of Lance Armstrong ads a little pressure to cyclo-cinematography. Can you imagine being THAT guy? The one douche who in a desperate attempt to get a action shot of LA, goes down in front of the 7 time tour champion, causing perhaps another broken collarbone or worse? Seeing how animated the crowd was over his signature, I'd probably get a massive group beat-down. "He made Lance go down! Kill him!" they would certainly shout, and then thousands of skinny armed punches and carbon soled cleat kicks to the head would rein down upon me! That kind of infamy would be difficult to live down.

Fortunately, the most fame I attracted (other than this Blog, which is totally blowing-up [not]) was being featured in this morning's LA times. I even made the picture. That's me, second row all the way to the right (partially obscured). Also further proof that I like to sat near the front of even a 2000 person peleton.

The media scrum was more surprising to me than the rider turn-out. While not every cyclist uses twitter, word spreads quickly by other means. My Team's mailing list was flooded with the news of the ride and we had a strong turn-out of 15-20 guys flying this year's Black and red colors. I counted at least three news crews the topper was when the news chopper came in low to cover the action. I heard lance say, "Wow, we even got a news chopper - only in LA!"

Being at or near the front for most of our three laps around Griffith Park I had a couple of opportunities to talk with lance. The first chance was at the top of the hill on the first lap. I pulled up next to him and suddenly couldn't think of anything to say. I had thought ahead of a few anecdotal comments to break the ice. First, for example that my coach Rick Babington, works with Chris Carmichael, Lance's coach, and had worked with him early in his comeback last year on his new time trial position. That's a good one. Or perhaps, that I had just gotten back from Belgium where the racing was WAY harder than in the US. Also a good ice breaker. no? But there I was riding with LANCE and I couldn't even say anything. He finally said the first words. Pointing down at my Ergomo power meter, he asked, "What the hell is that thing?" Not as cool an opener as what I had planned, but hell, I was talking to LANCE ARMSTRONG. I told him it was an old power meter and that it probably wasn't as good as the wireless SRM that was mounted on his bars. Clearly unimpressed, he had nothing more to say to me. With that we crested the hill for the first decent down to the Zoo.

Things went notably better for my second interaction and amazingly, someone snapped some pics at nearly the exact moment of this encounter. On our third and last lap heading up the hill in the park I found myself next to him again. This time I was more composed. A little out of breath from the climb and doing my best not to show it, I simply thanked him for doing this. How totally cool for him to do an open group ride with anyone and everyone who wanted to show up? And not without some risk. There were huge gaps in people's ability and group riding skills. The smallest incident could send the champion to the deck. He said, "Why not?" This time, with out a comment about my antiquated power meter. I then told him that I thought this ride was more dangerous than any Crit I'd ever ridden in and he completely agreed. "You Should have seen what it was like in Dublin," he told me, "there were guys on the deck everywhere." Then another rider, Joseph Ainsworth, who was on Lance's other flank, said, "Jim, can you imagine this in Belgium?" This was a perfect opening! Joe had done me a big solid, opening the door to talk about racing in Belgium. I told Lance that I had just gotten back from racing there. But our time was up again. We crested the hill and began the final decent back to the Zoo parking lot. Completely satisfied with my LA encounter I floated down the hill, avoiding the big sand patch and the giant road bumps at the bottom and thinking that it was amazing that I hadn't witnessed a single crash. Until the very end, that is.

Just when we were about to complete the ride and turn back into the parking lot, the media frenzy was at high tide. Dozens of photographers and video camera crews were lined up on the road. It looked more like the end of a pro tour race than a fun ride in the park. It was at the height of the press attention that some guy inexplicably toppled over. No one in front of him, no hole in the road - the spectacle must have been too much and he just fell down. The pack let out a giant and simultanious "OOOHHH!" Luckily for us all he was out of the bunch and caused only embarrassment for himself. A dumb crash is bad enough without the entire Los Angeles press corps there to make record of it.

On my ride home, I chatted with a random cyclist who told me about an even more embarrassing crash he witnessed and participated in. Apparently a woman ahead of him had crossed her front wheel up and went down. He attempted to jink to the right, but his shoe caught on the waist her cycling shorts, sending him over the bars. More shockingly however is that as he launched over the bars, his trailing shoe pulled the poor woman's shorts all the way down to her ankles! Where was the media for that one? Just another reason to wear bib shorts I suppose.

Museeuw MF-1 Review

I'll preface this review of the Musueew MF-1 with the fact that I'm not a cycling industry journalist or a professional reviewer. The perspective I can bring is that of a 3 year criterium and road race veteran with podium finishes and now (ahem) European racing experience. I've already covered the process of getting the bike but if you missed it here's a link back.

Getting my hands on this bike was a real coup. A main premise of the whole trip to Belgium was to race bikes. This could have been severely undermined if I ended up with a garbage bike, or no bike at all! Happily, not only did I get fantastic bike, I got an exotic piece of top-shelf European racing hardware that combined truly unique materials, pro-peleton components and eye catching styling.

MF-1 Music Montage from Litterbox on Vimeo.

Since the bike was a demo from the factory it's equipment load-out was a mystery until the day I picked it up. I had some hint from my contact at Museeuw Bikes that it would be equipped with Campagnolo components. This for me would have been a great option as my bike at home is similarity built-out. Which is why I was surprised to find that the XL MF-1 frame was set-up with SRAM Red from the cock-pit to the derailleur. I've had some experience with the SRAM gruppo from some months back when my coach loaned me his Colnago rigged up with the SRAM Force group. Transitioning to this component group takes all of 10 minutes on the bike to get used to the shifting mechanism. If you've never ridden it, the shifting features a single control lever behind each break lever the works on a "double tap" method. On the right hood you press the lever until it clicks once to shift into a bigger or "harder" gear, and press two clicks to shift into an smaller or "easier" gear. Since this isn't a component review it leave it at that except to say that my only gripe with the SRAM shifting with that the front derailleur has very limited trimming capability, expecially in the small chain ring. This can cause some irritating chain rubbing when riding in a crossed-up configuration - which I'm want to do. The component group is very light however, with crisp and dependable front and rear breaking complete with Swissstop break pads and precise shifting felt right at home on what was to be a very fast and capable road bike.

For wheels the MF-1 came with some very stiff and capable Museeuw branded shallow section carbon and aluminum clinchers, dressed smartly with top-end white and black Vredesten tires. The saddle was a very Euro looking white Fizik Aerione, with carbon braided rails, adding, or subtracting I should say from the already light feeling bike. The cockpit was an FSA intergrated stem and bar combo with a 110 milimeter length stem section and medium reach ergonomic drops. For me this was a perfect fit combined with the rest of the bikes geometry. And I should add also shaved additional grams from the biked over all weight.

Even in Europe Museeuw bikes are a rare sight. This one with a very understated gloss finish over naked carbon weave and smart looking and restrained graphics turned out to be a real head turner. When stopped in the French walled city of Burgues for a water break, a group of little french kids gathered around asking how much I paid for the bike. Almost everything about this bike is unique - from the long integrated seat mast to the dramatic wishbone fork and seat stay sections, even the carbon/flax texture stood out. I'm not sure if the composite 1/2 carbon and 1/2 flax material contributed to the look, but a close examination of the outer material wrapper revealed a tan organic looking reflective quality that seemed to live just beneath the carbon weave. In sunlight, which I was lucky enough to have a lot of - the bike really sparkled. While featuring a lug and tube design, tube shaping is anything but orthodox. This is most notable on the top tube and head tube lug assembly. The top tube has a variable shape with a thinner profile at the seat tube section that quite noticeably thickened toward the head tube section. The head tube lug has a bow like shape in profile and narrows at the front into bladed airfoil shape. To the naked eye I couldn't tell if the head tube featured a tapered design. The threads at the top of the headset looked like they were the same diameter at the top of the forks. This didn't detract from the bikes solid front-end ride qualities.

Steering was crisp and responsive but not jumpy or nervous. The front wheel tracked impeccably through turns and handled predictably over the roughest pave. And there was plenty of that to experience on this adventure. Nearly all the streets of Brugge had different sized cobbles. Some were neat and tightly placed, while others resembled the nightmarish broken blocks as seen in such races Paris Roubaix or Liege Bastogne Liege. Over all of this rough stuff the MF-1 preformed perfectly, gobbling up and heavy patches with the smooth qualities of a classic steel frame combined with the bottom bracket stiffness and weight of 21st century carbon. The unique material blend of carbon and flax fiber delivered on these great ride qualities. I suspect that the frames geometry and over-sized wishbone fork and seat stay played a roll in this area as well. This combo of stiffness and comfort are things we often read about, but rarely get to experience. In ride quality the MF-1 delivers big time.

The seat bracket atop the integrated seat mast was simple and very functional. Forgoing the flashy complexity of some other brands the MF-1's seat mount offered 3-4 centimeters of adjustment. This was important because the mast on demo bike looked as if was uncut at it's full length from the factory. I'm tall at 6'3", and needed all of that adjustment down ward to get the seat height at my optimal position. I've been riding long enough that I can get a seat height adjusted by feel, but it wasn't always that way. Some many years back I found some formula online that took into account inseam to calculate a proper height adjustment. The number worked for me and I've been using it since. It seems that things in Europe are somewhat more old school in this regard. The mechanic at Plum, the bike shop in Oostende offered to adjust the seat for me by having me sit on the saddle and dangle my feet with my toes on the ground. When he was done the seat was nearly an inch higher than I was accustomed to. I had some of my own tools so discretely adjusted it later.

While I never weighed the bike, the old "lift test" screamed "I'm light!" While I was waiting to check into my hotel in Amsterdam I had the bike with me at the check-in desk and the bell hops and concierge all took turns picking it up and marveling at it's subdued but rich rich styling. This bike was unabashedly at home in the lobby of a 4 star European hotel. I shutter to think what this thing would weigh with a light set of carbon tubular race wheels. I estimate that the bike as equipt for me was under 16 lbs. Impressive for an XL sized frame with clinchers.

After two weeks of exploring West Flanders, France and The Netherlands and then testing the bike in some very extreme race conditions it's difficult to find anything wrong with Museeuw's top on the line MF-1. I did have some issues keeping the headset tightly adjusted, but I cant hold that against the bike as a whole. The MF-1 is comfortable enough for the recreational rider looking to do cyclosportif riding and centuries, but stiff, agile and light enough for real top end racing. The MF-1 could easily be standard equipment and any Pro-tour team.

Perfection comes at a price as they say, and the MF-1 is no exception. I was very lucky to demo one. I've seen Musseuw frames and forks listed for as much as $6500.00. Certainly not a bargain, but if superior ride, race capability and a unique bike are your goals no bike I've ridden compares to the MF-1.

Blood in my Spit Part II

What had been a long day of sitting around and killing time had finally slipped away and an abundance of time suddenly seemed like not enough. With 45 minutes to go I got my number pinned on and began riding up and down the street near the cafe attempting to get warmed up. It wasn't completely clear where the start was going to be and if it was announced I missed it in the Flemish babble. I was hoping to get a look at the course, but it wasn't really marked so didn't want to get too far away.

While the actual warm-up wasn't going so well I was able to get a couple additional facts. 1st, the wind was even worse than I thought. A cold and steady 30mph blast with vicious gusts up to 40. This was very new to me. I've never even ridden in winds like this let alone raced. The second bit of intelligence I gathered was that I had put my number on incorrectly. In non pro-tour California racing we are instructed to put our race numbers on our rib cages - as I did here. In Europe however they put their numbers on like the pros do - over a jersey pocket on the lower back. So as not to look like a tool when I got to the line, I hopped off the bike, pulled off my jersey and moved my number.

The race was scheduled for 4:30. That time was quickly approaching and it still wasn't obvious where the start was. Guys we're circling around so I just tried to stay close to them. Then without instruction everyone seemed to line up and a blue shirted officials appeared to get everyone organized. I was in front of the lineup so found myself in good position at the start line. This was good news - if it was going to be fast off the line being at the front from was the place to be. The road was pretty narrow so trying to fight though 106 guys to get to the front would be tough. Things were tranquil and I was feeling relaxed. Having done plenty of racing, I don't really get that nervous anymore. Maybe I should have been a little more anxious, a slightly higher heart rate may have prepared me for what was about to happen.

One of the officials said something, and everyone began moving up to some imaginary new start line. Being in my tranquil fog, I was slow to react and guys started pushing forward all around me. Before the race even got going I was loosing my good position. These pricks were aggressive too, literally bumping into me and pushing my bike out of the way. Annoyed, I tried pushing back but it was too late. What was a good spot at the front was now wedged in toward the back. There wasn't much time to be upset though, an official blew the whistle and the race was on.

It was so packed in at the back that I had to wait for guys to get moving before I could even start to roll out and clip in. The acceleration that immediately followed was acute - shocking. From the start everyone was out of the saddle sprinting from the dead stop. There was no windup, no parade lap to see the 8k course, it was balls to the walls all out sprinting to simply hold position. Being at the back I couldn't see the road ahead and when we hit the first roundabout everything exploded into total chaos. Bikes were darting left and right, bunny hopping onto the sidewalks and over the center median. Everyone was yelling and pushing each other out of the way. I had guys leaning into my from both sides and it was everything I could do to protect my front wheel and handle bars. As we cleared the round about and turned to the right the next big acceleration came. The guys at the front who we're able to get through the obstacle quickly dropped the hammer again, while those of us in the pack and were lucky enough to make it through upright were sprinting again to catch back on.

Only 3-4 kilometers into the race and I suddenly became aware of my breathing. I looked down at the old Garmin 305 I brought on this trip to get an idea of what my heart rate was doing, but the screen was blank. The barging and bumping had vibrated the old cycling GPS off, again. This had been an issue throughout the trip, particularly over rough cobblestone roads. On previous training rides around Europe it was easy enough to simply turn the unit back on. But now at the very top end of my capability it was one task to many. I decided to leave the unit off. Taking my hands off the bars and looking down would be too dangerous. And besides, I didn't need a heart rate monitor to tell me that I was past the red line already.

After the hairball roundabout we were flying through a residential neighborhood. Without the computer I can only estimate the speed, which based my perceived hear rate and the fact that I was sitting in the wheels would say was close to 30mph and faster. The road was good, fresh pavement and two full lanes wide. Houses on both sides plus my position in the field had me "protected" from the wind. I knew I needed to move up. Spotting some small gaps I was able to take a few positions, but that was it. I was going about as hard as I could and getting no where. Guys who race with me know that sitting-in is not my style. I usually like to stay near the front in the top 10-15 positions but I simply had nothing more to give. I had the pedal to the floor, and like an old VW bug trying to get on to the freeway - this was as fast as I could go. Next came a fast 90 degree turn to the left and crosswinds came.

As fast as the turn was made the road narrowed down from a well paved two lane residential street into a 9 foot wide rutty farm road. I was inside and everyone was hard on the breaks pinching us through the corner. The turn onto the narrow road created a frightening bottle neck effect that cost us sorry bastards at the back precious momentum. As we came to a near standstill the sadists at the front began a full sprint out of the turn forcing the rest of us to chase again.

This is when the suffering really began.

That 30mph wind was now blowing directly across the rough narrow farm road. The front 20 or so guys formed an echelon blocking the the wind for each other, while the rest of us were "in the gutter" strung out in a long line with no protection from the wind - doing more work than the guys up ahead while trailing helplessly behind. It was the worst place to be and I knew it. Now I was way past my anaerobic top-end - jaw dropped open, gobs of mucus splattering across my face and on to my sunglasses, it crossed my mind for the first time that I wasn't going to be able to keep this up for another 110 kilometers.

Somehow, I managed to stay attached through the crosswind section and the field made another left turn, this time directly into the wind where being directly behind the guys in front offered some protection. We crossed back through the town center finally completing the first of what should have been 13, 8 kilometer laps. I glanced back over my shoulder to check my position in the field and realized that I was the last guy. The thought of being at the back for another run at that crosswind section was terrifying. There was no way I was going to let that happen again. Like the hundreds of thousands of men who died in trenches on the very ground during the first world war I made what was to be my "final push."

With the last of what I had in the tank, I jumped out of the saddle and surged through the pack moving up to a sheltered position mid field. Needing to let off the gas just for a second, I tried to catch my breath but choked on a gob of goo that erupted from my lungs. In that moment letting off the pressure - guys surged around me, and again I was slipping toward the back. Now I had run out of anger. The poisonous thoughts of giving up were encouraged by my pounding heart thumping against my ribcage.

No, I had to stay in this!

I latched onto the wheel of one of the guys surging around me and was again moving up instead of back. A brief flash of light filled my universe of suffering for that moment - if I could just hang-on. If I could make it to the front for the crosswind section and get a protected position they were surly going to ease up at some point. I just needed to hang-on.

Suddenly we were in the round about again and this time I was forced onto the sidewalk in a pack mad shouting Belgians, punching at each others thighs and fighting to keep the wheels on the ground. In a flash, the guys in front of me parted to the left and right revealing a mailbox directly in my path. Who would put a mailbox in the middle of a bike race? Why would a bike race be on a sidewalk? The absurd madness of it all gave way to pure survival instincts. On the breaks, rear wheel locking up I miraculously missed the mailbox. But the damage was done. Now I was at the back again. I was starting to crack.

The field turned again onto the narrow crosswinds section and I was shat off the back. As the field pulled away I had to lean into the wind to keep the bike upright. Now I had a clear view of the echelon ahead noticing for the first time that there were big white and brown cows looking on from the open fields around mus, an ambulance parked on the shoulder and a few silent spectators who knew better than to try to cheer me on. There was some solace in that I wasn't the only one left behind. Even in my depleted state I was passing others for whom the effort was also beyond their physical range.

Pulling into the town center for a second time I was mercifully pulled from the race by a clipboard wielding official in a blue shirt. Head hung down I coasted to a spot out of the wind and leaned my bike against a wall. I slouched down into a heap on the sidewalk and began coughing as my heart rate finally began to come down. Producing foamy lumps that I shamelessly spat into the gutter, I noticed the coppery taste of blood in my spit, feeling deeply thankful that the suffering was over. Thinking back to the first post of this blog, "How Hard Could it Be?" I thought, "THIS HARD," as I tried to wash away with my water bottle the disgusting pustules of my lung mucus collecting in the gutter in front of me. But I did it. I put myself in a whole new place attempting the impossible and the insane against semi-pros and sadists.

106 six racers started the race and only 9 finished.

All Strong guys, future pros and crazed enthusiasts gave it a go here in Belgium and I felt proud to have lined up with all of them. As my hacking finally began to subside, the smell of golden and crispy fritjes (Belgian french fries) wafted my way from the stand around the corner.