Short version of this race brief: DNF

Long version: 

I lined-up at my first race since last year's Killington Stage Race. I had not prepared much for the race, and didn't consider doing it until a week before. But, I didn't want to go so long out of racing and the gorgeous (and rather remote) 56-mile rolling course with a finish climb similar to Tokeneke seemed like a great occasion to test the legs. 

Thanks to Jim Nelson for introducing me to his buddy Mark --who graciously gave me a lift to the race. It was nice having a local to ride to race with, getting intel on the course, riders to watch, etc. Thanks Jim!

Registration was super smooth, given that we arrived early, beating the crowds to the registration table and the portas. I very much enjoyed having my permanent OBRA race numbers to pin on before the race), and it was nice that my race poopsmanship was downright solid after such a long hiatus from racing. The only anxiety was a bit of concern over the chilly weather with rain sweeping through occasionally. A good amount of downhill is featured in the first few miles of the 20-mile circuit, so I was worried about shivery-ness. A quick on-the-bike check/faux warm-up revealed that the temperature and rain weren't bad at all.

I lined-up with the Masters 3/4/5 race, front row. There were a good number of weathered-looking, chiseled-leg, old dudes there so I figured I would stay up front with these guys. The race went off and I did fine staying at the front with a short, steep climb right at the beginning, then through the first downhill section even pretty comfy with some knuckle-knocking here and there. On the second little rise however, I lost ground by fiddling with a non-functional front derailleur, which was not smart as I should have been happy to keep turning the big ring (which I had to do anyway).

Now towards the back, I pretended that was where I wanted to be... cause the group was settled into a slow grind, determined that the race would commence on the final hill and it was just a motoring session til then. The course didn't feature much climbing, but there was significant wind rifling through the flat and open valley floor, which made it difficult for small breaks to succeed and nearly impossible for solo attempts. 

Despite having achy legs, I was feeling pretty good given that I'd only been doing longer rides for a couple of weeks, and no structured training. And I felt OK on the climbs too, in spite of my burgeriffic 176-pound weigh-in (heaviest I've ever raced). I was not going to be contesting it at the end, but I was looking forward to seeing how much of a turn I could put-on on the final climb.

My first test came when I got caught behind a fairly big pile-up in a rather windy part of the course. I didn't notice it at the time, but Jim's friend Mark was caught in this crash and ended-up launching into a ditch, fully submerged in the farm-runoff, and --even worse-- his lovely Enve 45 front wheel cracked. Fortunately, Mark escaped with only a couple of bruises and some mental trauma from submersion. After rolling around the pile-up, I commenced chasing back to the group, found two other strong riders to help, and we got back after about five minutes of concerted effort. I felt good doing the chasing, but it's not where I wanted to unload that energy.

We were well into the second lap of the 20 mile circuit when something I'd wondered about earlier -a strange optical illusion of my front wheel spinning not so truly-- turned out to be a veritable race-stopper. I thought the considerable mud-cake on the tire was making the wheel appear to spin with a wobble, but as we were descending pretty fast toward the long-flat-windy sections, my bike started to behave a bit like a fair ground ride. Well, not that bad, but I could see spoke bowing and the instability indicated it was going to fail soon, so I raised my hand and slowed with my rear brake, making my wobbly way to the road-side. The wheel van arrived about 10 seconds after I stopped --midway down the descent. I got the spare front wheel on fairly quickly, but once down on the flats, I couldn't see the peloton. There must have been a slight cross-the-tail wind on that first flat section, because I felt that I was TT'ing as good or better than I ever had. I just put my head down and monitored my heart-rate and sensations. The sun was then glistening off the wet asphalt, the green fields spread out in anticipation of a thriving growth season. In the distance, heavy gray clouds hung dreamily over deep green forested hills. That was the scene I just before putting my head down into the TT effort. Some minutes later, maybe just 5 or so, a stranger knocked on my helmet --it was Boreas, the west wind. He said, "your TT is over, motherfucker". 

There was the peloton about 300 meters up the road. I put my head down and worked to defy Boreas, but the bastard had me by the lung and I was just a mackerel hooked on a trawler line, even if I had made it up to that little school of mackerels I was desperately trying to rejoin, I was mortally wounded with one lung dragging on the pavement and bloody chum in my legs where quads had once been.

I didn't make it. I finished the second lap and packed-up.

It wasn't a very good race for me, but it was good to get back into it.