Tue Night Crit: The Bull She Flew
By Richard Pepper
report filed June 2001, Santa Rosa, California
Was it the red bull? that odd flavor in the bottle at the start of the
timed 45 min event creates a sensation in the mouth that makes you think
that you will either die from this oddly sweet flavored rat poison or
that maybe there is something to be said for guarana root and taurine.
Maybe there's chicken blood in there, too. Who really knows.
Anyway, the pantheon of professionals did not show up last night (save
for that old Italian pro), just the usual suspects of category 1, 2 and 3 blokes.
Echelon team (Napa) had about 6 guys there, all strong as hell, all
smart, and they were definitely driving the race.
So the race starts and I'm figuring that I'm gonna have to ride reactive
to Echelon. They keep sending one guy up the road, often their
scrawniest dude, and with the ebb and neap tides of crit dynamics, the
lead invariably comes back.
My sore legs can only withstand a few genuine attacks, and finally,
about 1/2 way through the race, the big lunk Bryant Smith (RECT) meets
up with the scrawny guy from Echelon right after a move I made was
coming back. Sensing danger and seeing a gap still behind me marked by
slowing Echelon riders, I scratched my way up from 4 seconds behind to
finally making contact to this duo (this took a lap and a half!). Each
meter closed was a monumental effort. These guys were laying it down!
The windy night supressed speeds but for the first time in several
weeks I was seeing 30mph on my cyclometer which is good for this windy
course.
So finally I caught on and tried my best to keep my front wheel in the
buttcracks of the rotating riders in front. After a few laps of gasping
for air and the general humiliation of sitting on, I lamely made it to
the front to take a pull to keep it honest, but I think I slowed the
train down a little when I was doing so.
After a bit I was able to take regular pulls like a regular breakmate. I
made sure to get behind bryant in rotation as he is bigger and smoother
than the scrawny dude, who offers as much draft as a fedex envelope on
its edge. Bryant's more like a UPS truck with failing brakes.
The breeze kicked up all sorts of smells that I noticed as we were
slamming round the course; wet concrete from the Nokia building going
up, damp grass smells from the sprinkled-on sod, the musky perfume from
some busty gal who showed up to watch and we all think is shopping for a new guy. I
guess the smell center is one of the last to shut down in the brain when
entering Anaerobia.
OK enough bullshit. Finally, mercifully, the three to go lap card comes
out and I know I'm gonna make it with these guys, but frankly, I have
been keeping it redlined for about 20 minutes and my sprint she's not
too good anyway.
We had time for some cat n mouse as we had more than a half lap on the
field. Turns out my nose is in the wind (at 12 mph) going into the last
turn, and I have visions of Outchakov doucheing Armstrong in that one
stage a few years back in the tour. I jumped hard in the turn, cutting
inside sickeningly, then powering out to the outside all the way before
slicing back inside for the final run in, but all this slight of hand
(or leg) was no match for two guys who were just plain fresher than me.
They were a photo finish (Bryant getting it), and I about 1 1/2 lengths
back.
So Anaerobia goes podium last night. $10 for 3rd ($8 for entry fee), net
of $2, and I puncture a $50 conti tubular on the long ride home. I'd say
that's a bargain night.
Notes:
