Jim: Baker Park Crit, Frederick, CRP for 4/5 Over 30, and Cat 5

At the outset, I just want to say that if I’m doing something stupid on the bike, correct me. Just say, real loud, “Look moron, you’re being an idiot." I got jammed up real good Saturday because of some idiots riding stupid, and one guy who caused me big problems even had the nerve to get on my case in an earlier race for chewing out a guy whose little stunt nearly caused a crash. Racing is tough. It's tougher when you're stupid. I ain’t here to get my butt kissed, I’m here to get better at this racing thing, faster, fitter, smarter and more skilled. It won't happen if y'all don't take the time to unscrew me, when I'm screwed. I'll repay the favor it if seems appropriate.
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When I hoisted my bike into the back of my decrepit pickup truck this morning, my right thumbnail caught on the seat and pulled away from the cuticle. By the time the bike was settled in and I finished cursing and hopping around on one foot waving my arms like a chicken, there was a substantial flow of blood coming down the thumb into my palm. This set the tone for the day, and was an omen of things to come. I should have taken the hint, driven to Dunkin Donuts, bought a half dozen mixed and a bucket of coffee, and retreated to bed sound in the knowledge that disaster was averted. I’m not a subtle man, however, and ignored my bike’s warning.

The first race was the Cat4/5 Over 30 – the Somewhat Old Guys Slow-ish Race. Only it wasn’t slow, it was about 2 MPH faster than the typical Cat 5 race I’ve been in, but easier because the pace through corners was smoother. The Baker Park course is basically flat. After the start, there’s a slight downhill into a technical left hand, 90 degree turn. The turn ends on a bridge, with a couple big expansion joints on it. A hundred flat yards later, turn two is another technical, 90 degree left turn, with a raised manhole cover in the middle and a tall curb and drainage grate on the far right hand side. This leads into a long flat, which ends in a semi-technical turn three, another 90 degree left onto a bridge, again with another raised manhole cover mid-turn. This leads into a left hand sweeper, and up a slight big ring, one downshift uphill to the start-finish line. It’s big boy heaven – if hills make you break out in hives and involuntarily empty your bladder, but you can crank out a lot of power, this is the crit for you. The racing rhythm made a lot more sense than the mindless attacks and random braking that usually happens in the 5s. The senior 4s worked where it made sense to work, like on the downhills and the back straight, and lazed around like dogs going up the slight uphill. Ahh yes, age and treachery…

The race went well, mostly. Joe Rudolph set the pace for Coppis, he seemed to be in 3rd or 5th for the entire race, right up front whenever I looked. Damian Penny looked to be hanging out between about 8th and 15th for most of the race, and I spent most of my time between about 12th and 20th. I can’t speak for the other guys but as a rider who needs to hide a lot and pick his spots carefully, I found 15th or so to be a perfect spot, with little accordion effect and great draft potential, and none of that bothersome having to work and pull for others stuff.

It wasn’t all sunshine and joy, however. There were some squirrels out there. One guy in an unmarked jersey overreacted a bit in the second turn, and suddenly ran about eight feet wide, pushing me onto the drainage grate. I corrected him a bit as we went up the back straight. Nothing serious – just “buddy, you can’t f*$in’ swing out in that corner, you’re going to cause a huge crash.” When I said that, this guy behind me in a “DOA” jersey said “don’t talk big man, just ride.” More on him later. A lap or two later, a WWVC guy also swung wide. This time I wasn’t kind at all and shot him a “WTF were you thinking by doing that? Just pedal through.” Both times I narrowly avoided getting run into the curb, and the second time, I actually used the high curb as a berm and bounced my tires off it. That was pretty puckering, but on the positive side the adrenalin released by that near-disaster helped me catch up to the pack and regain the positions I lost pretty quickly. Maybe I'm a dick, but when people screw up and I know a better way, I usually try to tell people, especially if my safety is at stake.

I survived 18 laps with the lead group without incident. I didn’t try for the primes (a six pack of beer each time) though I was inadvertently positioned well to try to win the last one with four laps left, maybe in 8th or 10th, but not really interested in sprinting for it – it seemed like a stupid time to try to work really hard, so I just sat in. So did most people - the front 15 or so bunched into an area about 12 feet deep and 10 feet wide. Nobody wanted to go, but eventually I think some NCVC guys went after it.

Coming up the hill going into the 19th and next-to-last lap, I was sitting at 15th or so. Joe looked to be in the front three or five, Damian had his wheel or was pretty close to it, hard to remember, so I decided to join them in the front five or right on the wheel, to see if I could do something to help out. Joe looked really strong so I was thinking about vonlunteering to lead out, or maybe launching an attack on 19 or early on 20 to try to draw the serious guys out for a minute just to soften them up. My heartrate was low and under control – it was a mid/high tempo at that point and I had a lot in the tank for a hard last two laps. As the pack dogged it up the rise, I upshifted twice, and swung out wide right to do a little standing sprint to move up a couple bike lengths into the top 5 or 10 really quick on the jump, so as not to bring anybody with me. As I stood up to sprint, I heard a noise from the rear cogs: “CHUNKGNGNGCRUNCH.” Something lashed my right calf really hard and I totally lost communication with the rear wheel, I free spun a half revolution, sat down, raised my hand, hollered “chain chain chain” and rolled to a stop along the curb. The pack – which had gotten really atritted at this point to maybe 25 riders, whooshed by, and I got off the bike and started screaming at it. The chain wasn’t off, it was broken. I’m right by the stop/finish line, and I’m looking the bike square in the top tube, going “you duck. You ducking mother ducker.” Okay, I’m a dick. I freely admit this. And I’m a bad role model. I’m screaming at my bike in front of maybe 10 little kids. Ick. What a jerk. The only redeeming value of my actions is that I only whipped out about a half dozen workaday profanities, and kept the really creative and foul stuff that I learned as an Army NonCom in the bag. I wouldn’t want to water down the shock value of my creative profanities on something this minor…

The chain was wrapped up in the derailer and around the right seat stay. That pain I felt in my calf was the breaking chain whipping me. As Ken Woodrow insightfully observed later, “this is probably what Hincapie meant when he said that sometimes on those days you feel like you’re doing really well, it’s like you’re riding without a chain.”

So then it was off to the nearest bike shop. Some people gave me screwy directions for Wheelbase, so I hunted around for it. Hey, did you know that there are granaries and farm supply and animal husbandry stores in Frederick? Neither did I, until I went looking for a bike shop. Man, there is all kinds of crap in Frederick, mainly surrounded by people in pickup trucks and Volvos driving 5 MPH looking at it. Not stopping, but not really going, either. It makes navigating through Frederick on a Saturday, when you are in a hurry, very frustrating. Think July 4th traffic in downtown D.C., and you have an idea about the pace of Frederick traffic. Which is a little frustrating when your chain is broke, it’s 60 minutes to your next race, and you can’t find the bike shop. Eventually I found it. Wheelbase is a nice shop, easy to feel at home there. I highly recommend it, if you happen to break a chain, have no time to get it fixed, and think you need to lighten your wallet by about $60 and get back to the race in a hurry. Can’t be beat, if that’s your itch. Looks like they sell some Campy components too. Useful to know.

The second race, the regular ol’ Cat 5s, went off about as expected. The pace wasn’t faster but it was much harder. A lot of guys braked in the corners, causing bad accordions coming out. One guy early on – another WWVC guy – braked hard in that second technical corner, slowing the whole pack behind about 10th place to a near stop going into the back straight. This opened up an enormous gap that we had to work very hard to close. I shouted at the dude as he braked – he also swung from the inside of the turn to the outside as he braked – but as all rolling road hazards do, he pedaled off, oblivious. I guess we dropped him by about the 4th lap, but he made the corners interesting until then; I made a point of moving past him before the next corner.

I mostly rode nearer the front to avoid the whipsaws. I think I came through the start/finish in 3rd or 4th or 5th for a few laps but dropped back a bit, I wanted to make sure I didn’t do any work, since my legs were a little tired from the earlier race. Midway through the race it started to rain, but only in corners one and two, the tightest ones on the course. This made line choice really critical. The road was slippery and there was a lot of road paint as well as that big, slippery expansion joint in the middle of turn 1. The middle and outside line were treacherous if you carried a lot of corner speed. I tried a couple variations and found that no matter which of the normal lines I picked, my rear wheel would slide out about 6 inches going around the turn, which seemed to be just courting disaster. After experimenting for a while I settled on an inside line that seemed really fast. From the inside of the paceline going down the slight downhill, get on the yellow line. Cut turn one really sharp, clip the apex right by the 90 degree curb and pedal out of it. Any turning done after the curb was gentle, and the expansion joint and painted surfaces were out of play. Drift out to the middle of the road and take turn two the same way. By pedaling steadily across the bridge it was easy to pick up a handful of positions this way, and turn three could be ridden the same way, also picking up positions. Making it even better, the wind was blowing from right to left at this point, so riding on the inside coming out of turn 3 as well would position you perfectly w/r/t wind, for the uphill sprint finish. I filed this away in preparation for the last lap.

So it went for about 16 laps. Nobody really did anything except for Michael Githens, who attacked off the front for a couple laps just to see what he could do, I think. He’s a nice guy and a strong rider, a Cat 5 who took 4th at Poolesville in the 4/5, and he may be out for the muffin ride… At some point around lap 14, I was riding next to the guy with the DOA jersey. Remember him? He’s the guy who said “shut up and ride, big man” when I was trying to un-screw one of the squirelly guys in the 4/5 race. In the 5 race I was trying to be friendly and as some really small guys tried (futilely) to attack off the front, "I said “let the little guys attack. We’re in great shape right here.” He didn’t respond and was really tight, clenched jaw, didn't seem able to talk, had a deathgrip on the bars. I should have noted this at the time but didn’t.

Coming into lap 19, the second to last lap, the pace started picking up a bit. I soft pedaled up the hill, gathered myself a bit, and cruised up a few spots going down the hill into the first corner. I felt good, certainly capable of a top 10 finish and maybe something a bit better. I held myself in about 14th place or so, and planned to move up strong going up the hill by the start/finish, just before the start of the last lap. As we rounded turn two into the back straight, everything seemed in place. We were in a triple paceline, and a lot of the small guys were having trouble keeping the pace. Unlike most hilly crits or road races, a lot of big, powerful guys had survived to the end, so we were rocking around 30 MPH down the back stretch. Still pretty comfortable if you ride Hains Point regularly, but faster than most guys seemed used to.

As we passed the halfway point of the straight and the paceline weaved left a bit as it did on every lap, I noticed a guy coming by me on the left. He was sort of close. As he passed, he half wheeled me and started to cut me off, trying to squeeze in. Normally I’d brake a touch and slip out to the left behind him, let him in, but he had an NCVC guy right on his wheel, so both of these guys were boxing me in hard on the left. I also noticed the damnedest thing: the guy in front had a squirrel tail hanging from his bike seat. (Again, another omen I ignored). As soon as squirrel boy thought he was clear of me he tried to force his way in. He wasn’t clear and I had no place to go, so when his rear wheel got within an inch of my front hub and kept moving in, I moved in maybe six inches, to within 2-3 inches of DOA, so that I was a couple inches inside the guy in front of me. That’s when DOA guy starts making the clenching up noise – “uh, uh, ah, ohhhhhh!” and wobbling. It only took an instant to know he was going to lose it, and he swerved a bit (we hadn’t touched) and the next thing I know, he is locked up and he slams into me, I slam into the NCVC guy on my left, DOA is upside down next to me and I’m flying.

I don’t remember everything that happened then. I tried to relax. I went ass over teakettle and landed on the top of my head. I skidded quite a ways. Some guy rode over me and crashed. Some other guy saw it and just crashed. It was pretty bad. The guy who had been just outside of me on my left got back on his bike and pedaled away moaning, trying to catch the pack. The EMT stopped him on the next lap around, it looked like he had a broken ankle.

I apologized to DOA. Said “sorry I was coming in man… the guy with the squirrel tail pushed. You didn’t have to react like that. We didn’t touch… just lean into me if we do.” In reality I should have freakin screamed at him but I didn’t and felt really awful because he was complaining about how bad his shoulder hurt, and I didn’t feel that bad… at the time.

After the race, immersed in bitterness, shaking, and wondering if I’m a hopeless non-finisher, another NCVC guy came over while Ken Woodrow and I were scarfing peanut butter and jelly sammiches. The NCVC guy complimented me on my pack riding skills, said I was moving really comfortably in the crowds and dragging him up through the pack and giving him a luxury draft all day… "that's nice," I thought. "Irrelevant, but nice of him." Then he launched into a tirade about DOA guy – how he was squirrelly, he was a road hazard in the first race too, and he just knew he’d cause an accident, the guy shouldn't have been out there, and so on. Amazing. Later on DOA passed by Ken and me and said something about how I was coming at him really fast and that caused him to crash. I was "coming at him really fast"? Hell, I moved left six inches. That’s when I *knew* I hadn’t touched him, he’d just lost it, getting the nerves when I dodged squirrel boy – otherwise he’d have mentioned me hitting him instead of “you were coming at me really fast.” Of course I was coming really fast. If I hadn’t, squirrel tail boy was going to take me out and we still would have gone down.

Needless to say, squirrel tail boy was unhurt, and probably won the whole thing. I notice that the people who cause crashes in races generally ride away unscathed and unknowing, leaving wreckage in their wake. The next lap around, I’m sure squirrel boy was thinking, “Hmmmm… wonder why those guys are laying there moaning? Must be a new crash… didn’t see anything like that my last time through… Hey, I wonder what time ‘World’s Fastest Indian’ is showing at the dollar cinema tonight?”

Mainly I’m pissed about being nicely positioned in two races, and not being able to close the deal. It’s like taking that hot cheerleader to the prom, and she still goes off and dances with the stupid quarterback. But there is lingering damage too. My bike is pretty bent up and I’m not happy about that. (The helmet is wrecked, the jersey looks like somethign out of "The Warriors," the bibs are wrecked and the gloves are wrecked too, if you were curious. But my racing license, which was in the back jersey pocket is unscathed... that's some tough paper). The shop is taking a look at the bike and I’ll get the butcher’s bill tomorrow afternoon or Tuesday. I may be without a ride for a while if the thing is damaged bad enough. I’m bruised all over. Holy crap, I only rarely felt this bad after a rugby game - I remember a guy who played for the English developmental side making me feel that way, and another guy who had played for the great Welsh teams of the late seventies doing this to me... but I normally don't associate this kind of pain with bicycling. My entire back and neck are bruised, causing a slight headache. My left shoulder is very bruised – just muscle I think. My left leg and but-tock have extensive road rash, as do my shoulder blades, left arm and shoulder. My fingers are sanded down, my left knuckles look like I was in a minor fistfight. And the fingertip of my ring finger on my left hand is still MIA, ground off in action, presumed dead. We sent Chuck Norris and a team of Marines out to look for the fingertip, but its location is unknown at this point and we’ve taken steps to notify the other fingers and the toes that this one heroic digit won’t be coming home, except perhaps in a pine box draped in Coppi colors. Some gave all, all gave some, and I gave the finger. Ken Woodrow claims he ran over the fingertip in turn three late in the Cat 4 race, and that it caused him some trouble, but we’re treating that like most reports of MIA sightings – taking it seriously enough, holding out hope, but not expecting to see it again.

Writing this a day later, I realize… man alive, that was a hell of a crash. On the plus side, you don’t often go down on the pavement at 30 MPH, do a huge endo, and just walk away from it. Roadracers ride at tempo, where angels dare not tread. Dial Soap and a bath scrubby did a good job of getting most of the dirt out, just lather up, scrub it hard, then let it sit for three or four minutes and do its disinfectant thing. A bit of “no pain foaming disinfectant” afterwards, followed by Neutrogena on the road rash, one of those “H” bandaids on the new Yakuza finger, some Neosporin on the big cuts on the elbow and fingers and a couple Motrins, I’m as good as new. Well, not really. My body is definitely paying a price. I needed a four hour nap this afternoon and I’m still wiped out, heading for bed in a couple minutes.

Final note. You are probably wondering how I’m typing this with a mangled hand. Well… let’s just say it hurts. The missing fingertip on my left ring finger – between the pinkie and the ‘big angry communicator finger’ has been “debreeded” down to a point near the bone, and the nail appears to have been torn upwards out of the cuticle pretty good, like three or four other fingernails. Sadly, the nerve endings – lots and lots of them – remain, wiggling in the breeze just asking every solid object in the room for a little high fivin’ love. “Go ahead, coffee table… get me high, get me low, baby.” “But doesn’t it hurt to type?” Eh. Not compared to my bruised up back I suppose. Even my new Yakuza finger only hurts when I type w, s, or 2. But who uses w or s or 2 when they type? What can I say. If you want to avoid pain, this is probably the wrong sport for you.