Best Foot Forward

I wake up each day with a leg that throbs.

(Stop snickering in the back there, you naughty boys!)

It's a dull ache. A lingering ache. It's the kind of ache that reminds you of something you've done not quite right.

It's like the morning after you moved some furniture. You know the feeling. You pulled, or stretched, or strained *something*.

It's an "owie".

My feet hit the floor (gently...) and I reach for my sock. It's a long sock. It's a knee sock. Sometimes it's polka-dot. Other times it's plain black or white.

I reach for my boot.

At this point in the narrative you're uncertain what image to conjure. "Boot". It could mean a lot of things. Is it a cowboy boot, crafted from exotic leathers and inscribed with patterned stitching? Is it a Doc Martin? Have I brought forward my adolescent punk years? Is it a Timberland? If so, is it a fashionista Timberland—all style and no substance? Or, is it a Timberland —a rugged, deeply dirt-encrusted symbol of a hard work ethic?

So many possibilities. So many images.

The mind's eye stalls. It blinks. What could it be? And how do I resolve the polka-dot sock?

I carefully insert my foot into the soft polyester cocoon. The hard shell surrounding the foam clunks against the wood floor. I pick up the plastic covering shell, insert it over my shin, and tear open the Velcro straps. Their ripping sound tears at my heart as I loop the straps, pull tight, and smooth the fabric down upon itself.

It's my orthopedic boot.

I hate it.

And so my day begins.

It's my reality—no longer new. It's a life of stormtrooper jokes. And pain. So much more pain than I'd expected: chronic hip, back and neck pain; intermittent hip flexor, knee, and calf pain; constant bruises from kicking myself with the shell.

And the psychic pain.

My head hurts.

I've been in this damned boot for five months.

How the hell did I get here?

I've written about it:

• Injuries Suck!
• Sunday Morning Call
• The Ride I Needed
• How Do You Deal With It?

But there's more to the story...

How Do You Deal With It?

Author's Note: So many of my posts are of the quasi-heroic nature. Life isn't like that, though. It's filled with bouts of doubt and insecurity. I'm right in the middle of one right now. It's where I've been since Pelotonia. I haven't written about Day 2 for a reason...

I'm just over half-way.

7 out of 12.

58%.

Then I start rehab.

--sigh--

I'm recovering from a major injury...again. My third in three years. You'd think I be wiser about it...about recovery.

I'm not.

I'm still learning.

And I'm doing a bad job of it.

What's Going On

I have a torn calf muscle.

Sounds pedestrian, doesn't it?

How's this: I tore part of the muscle from the bone. Think "chicken leg". More specifically, think: "gnaw on chicken leg."

Yep. I excel in the art of the injury.

Simple Is Never Enough

Two years ago it was a torn labrum (shoulder) with a detached bicep tendon. Not enough for me...nope! I had to take it to another level! Two weeks into recovery I developed bronchial pneumonia. You try coughing up buckets of phlegm with an immobilized, excruciatingly painful arm. Five weeks out of work, a frozen shoulder, and scary rehab followed. I rock!

Last year? Same shoulder...still with limited range of motion...and I shatter the collarbone--not broke, shattered five to seven pieces. Surgery. Titanium plate. Later x-rays revealed...the bone not fusing, so all I have holding the shoulder together are six screws, a thin, green (!) titanium plate, and my atrophied muscles. I am awesomeness personified!

So here I am, recovering once again.

You'd think I be wiser about recovery.

I'm not.

Honesty-time

Every Snickers I sneak. Every morning I stay in bed. Every "bad for you" food I devour. Every blog post I consider, and abandon, betrays me.

I'm weak stuff.

Sure, I still work out. Fits and starts. No regularity. No plan. No cardio (I can't!) Strictly weights.

I keep trying to convince myself I'm enjoying it. I keep looking at myself in the mirror seeking...something.

Validation?

Strength?

Focus, desire, intensity?

Nada. All I see is a flabby forty-something with little self-control and no drive. Where's the fire?

Who is this guy?

I don't recognize him, and I certainly don't like him.

So, back to the beginning.

How do I deal with it?

Badly.

Something's got to change...

The Ride I Needed

Please help me raise $4000 to help END CANCER!

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When you leave the house before sunrise, you know you're committed.

When you leave the house during a downpour, before sunrise, you know you're something.

I had a few companions on my ride: Anne and Shirley. Their voices echoed through my head for the five hours of rain that helped define my ride.

If it were not for them. I would have been left entirely to myself. In the first two hours of my ride I only saw three vehicles. I didn't see any bicycles for four hours.

Like I wrote: when you leave the house during a downpour, before sunrise, you know you're something.

And when you plan to do all of that for 130 miles with ~8,000 feet of climbing—while injured—you're...something unprintable.

I'm Only Happy When It Rains

Sunday's ride was a test. My injury was forefront in my mind. This ride was to help me set my riding expectations for Pelotonia. I know that it's the money that matters believe me, I get it. But my performance matters to me as well. And I know that I won't be happy if I don't ride to my expectations.

Mercifully, it was raining. Sometimes, it was pouring. That makes me happy.

Shirley

As I've written before, I do so love to ride in the rain. It comforts and tests me like no other conditions. It's primal, elemental. It's full commitment and complete concentration

Riding in the rain feels pure. If you're there, you're there because you want to be. Something is driving you, and being there is being true to yourself.

I hope Pelotonia 11 is in the driving rain.

Here Comes the Rain Again

I felt remarkably good. My legs had required from Wednesday night's sufferfest. And I was armored for battle.

Annie (Come on, you knew this was coming!

My physical-therapy sage recommended that I use an ankle brace—to give me feedback that would limit my calf movement. He also suggested kinesio tape, to help support the calf.

Good ideas, those.

Armor!

I was two hours in, tracking at ~16 mph, and I was managing my power output to the low 200s—often much lower. It was not a ride about speed. It was not about power intervals. It was to test myself—my fitness and my leg—to assess what I could do.

And I learned a lot.

I discovered that I could do...most of what I could normally do I'm about 80% to 85% on a bike. That's compared to about 50% on foot. Overall, my power average was identical to my 2-day Shenandoah ride in July. But it came at a cost.

Because of my calf, my biomechanics are...different. I'm working far more with my left leg, with predictable consequences:

• Left IT-band tightness
• Left knee soreness
• Left hamstring fatigue

On the right, there are consequences as well:

• Right hip-flexor fatigue
• Right hamstring...weirdness
• Right shin fatigue

I'm imbalanced—no surprise there. And if Pelotonia wasn't less than a week away, I'd succumb to mindful rest and a lot of swimming.

But Pelotonia is in six days, and all my biomechanical issues are manageable. Stretching, massage, tape, bracing, and Vitamin I can get me through.

What else did I learn?

• I can't sprint
• I can't surge
• I can climb—but I need to do so by adjusting technique and with less top-end power than I am accustomed to
• I can push out long, sustained power sessions. I can still handle a bike
• I can put my head down and suffer

And I can still enjoy the experience.

Taking Flight

Mile 73. On a long, flat-ish stretch outside Thurmont, with farms on either side of the road. Realizing that I have a lot of miles in front of me, were I to make it home. I'm soaked through, but the rain has just stopped. Traffic is beginning to appear, as folks emerge from their rainy-Sunday cocoons.

On the periphery, from my left, I see something in the sky. It's larger than it should be. Thump-thump-thump beat its wings. Three strokes. That's all it took to cover the distance between us. It was heading straight for me, and then it banked, as only a bird can. Strong, fluid, powerful. It turned, curving away to my left, passing behind me just as it approached the road.

Sometimes Mom pays us a visit, bearing wonderful gifts...

And I was blessed with a perfect view of an American Bald Eagle in full flight.

"Thank You!" I called as non-rain-induced chills passed over me.

I closed my eyes, pedaled on, and watched as my mind replayed all 5 seconds of the experience.

And I rode on.

Decisions, Decisions

I wasn't going to make it. 130 simply wasn't going to happen. I was out of food, out of energy, and somewhere around mile 87 I got the first twinge in my calf. It was time to reconsider.

If I pushed on the whole way, I might make it home uninjured. But chances were that my bio-mechanical issues would result in another injury. I started the ride with the intention of testing myself. I had achieved that goal; so why push it?

And—much to my surprise—my ego wasn't throwing up barriers. Somehow I wasn't viewing not finishing as a failure. I actually believed what I was saying to myself.

Well, we all grow up sometime, don't we?

So I called in the cavalry (for the second time in two weeks), and I was picked up.

112 miles. 7.5 hours. 16.1 mph average. ~8,000 feet climbed. 4,000+ calories burned.

And one decision made.

I'm riding Pelotonia. Both days. And I'm going to...

...decide on Wednesday if I can hang with the big boys.

Let's see how I recover, and what I have on Tuesday night.

Yep...I'm wussing-out on making a decision today!

Sunday Morning Call

May I please introduce Papillon
(to those who have not yet met her).
She's a dream made real, and she's my partner
in my ongoing journey.

It's early. It's raining.

By the time anyone reads this (IF anyone reads this), I will have been on the road for hours.

It's the big decision ride.

I'm freshly shaven. My calf is taped and braced.

But, how will my calf do? How is my fitness?

This morning is the test.

I'm shooting for 100+. I need to know if I can make that mileage; and if I can, how I feel. And how will I recover?

Ultimately, can I hang with the big boys? Or, will I ride with a different group, focusing more on friendship, comradeship, and enjoying the day for what may come?

Ambitions are stubborn things; they die hard.

It's decision day.

Kinesiology Tape + Ankle Brace = Hope

Gladiators got nuthin' on me!

Reassessing Expectations

This one's also about Pelotonia. But I'm not fundraising. I'm writing as a rider.

First, some history...

Pelotonia 2009

I rode with Lance. I felt great! I was thrilled to be there! As a rider, it was a wonderful experience.

Pelotonia 2010

I never blogged about the ride...for a number of reasons (though I'm not sure which reason was my tipping point...long story...even for me).

The Pelotonia Cycling Team led us out of town,
setting a paces that (eventually) caused a selection.

I rode with the lead group. The Pelotonia Cycling Team led us out of town. Once into farmland, the bunch began to dwindle. Sketchy group riders fell by the wayside. There was one crash I saw—a rider got bumped to the side of the road into a culvert, with a spectacular cartwheel the result.

When we got into the rolling hills, riders were dropped with each passing kilometer. The steady group pace was around 26 mph, and a lot of riders simply couldn't stay with it.

I was fortunate to have hooked up with one of the strongest of the strong, and a leader among the group. My friends, Sloane "I'm Big, I'm Army strong, I'm kinder than you can imagine" Spalding and Robert "I Ride BMC and can suffer like a bastard" Collier connected me to Dave "sure I'm skinny, but I'm stronger than YOU" Chesrow.

Dave particularly helped me to be accepted by a peloton that—at this point—was locals-only.

While local surfers are a floating gang that protects its favorite break, a local peloton is a rolling gang. It has its own character, pecking order, and mores. Make no mistake, I was an outsider. And I knew it.

And this makes sense. A fast-moving peloton demands a level of commitment and trust from its riders that few "normal people" can grok. We're traveling at 26+ mph on the flats and 40+ downhill. We're on twitchy, high-performance vehicles that have less than 3 square inches of road contact. We're drafting within inches of each other's wheels. And we occasionally bump—elbows, knees, hips—as we react to an ever-changing road flow, including debris, holes, animals, and vehicles.

"Neither a borrower no wheelsucker be..."

So, there I am, an out-of-town guy. Am I a strong rider? How am I in a bunch? Will I take my turns on the front? Will I wheelsuck? Can I climb? I had to prove myself, but having a "sponsor" made it a lot easier.

My goal was a sub-five hour time. This translates into a 20 mph average—including any stops along the way. When you consider the liquid necessaries (input AND output), that average speed needs to be even higher.

This group could do it.

I could do it.

Could we do it together?

The short answer is: yes. I came across the line in 4:56. This included necessaries. We were fast and well-supported. In fact, several of the crew had their own SAG support, which made all the difference in the world.

I was one of the first two cancer survivors across the line. I was one of the first three Limited Brands finishers.

But that's not the point of this post. I could write a detailed report, but (really) who cares. This is a post about now. Today. And one week from today.

Pelotonia 2011

Starner Hill. One leg. I'm thinking the lead group will
drop me like...something unpleasant...

I have written before that my goal for 2011 is to finish in the top 10.

Um...Er...Well...

I tore a muscle in my calf last week. I am writing this 11 days after the injury.

It's not healed.

Not even close.

I visited my physical-therapy guru. He was blunt. I need to re-set my expectations.

I went on my team's Wednesday night sufferfest. Sawtooth profile. Oh. My.

Imagine pedaling with one leg. Now add just 75% of the downstroke of the other leg.

The result? A 2.5 mile-per-hour drop in my average speed for that ride.

Wednesday's ride taught me a few things. I learned that at steady-state, I am still strong. What I can't do is surge, handling attacks or the accordion-like behavior of a competitive group. If left on the front, I can pull. But the dynamic aspect of a competitive ride is beyond me.

I learned that I can climb. In the saddle. Even on an 18% grade. I can even get out of the saddle. But I also learned that I can't so it for long.

I also learned that if I'm out of the saddle, I'm down to one and a quarter legs. I cannot pull up with my right, and I can't flex down with any power (driving through my calf).

Oh, did I mention that I'm right-dominant?

Shite.

Reassessing Expectations

I'm not ready to give up on the lead group just yet. I'm stubborn that way.

I need to test it.

The route to Thurmont...60+ miles one way.

Most of me believes that I can stay with the group over Starner Hill. But at what cost? Will I blow myself out on one-and-a-half legs? Will I be able to hang on (for dear life, by my fingernails) the whole 102? Will I tear the fibers more, rendering me useless?

So, Sunday morning I will be on the road at 0530. I will head for Thurmont, in a variation on my Father's Day ride. I will come home. I will ride for as long as necessary to complete the mileage. I won't care a whit about speed.

I'll come home, eat, shower, self-massage, and decide. I will answer the question: what are my expectations of myself for this ride.

And I will let you know on Monday.

Injuries Suck!

NOT me.

The Accidental Runner ran Monday. The Accidental Runner blew up his calf Moanday. The Accidental Runner is depressed.

Sigh.

Today, my best friends are the three "I's": ice, ibuprofen, and elevation (Ok, so it's two "I's" and "e". Sue me.)

This sucks.

It was to have been an hour+ run. The usual kinks worked themselves out over the first mile or two. Everything then loosened up and felt good. I opened my stride and picked up some speed—nothing Bolt-like, rather comfortably middle-aged. I felt good.

Decision Point

At the 30-minute mark I faced a decision: turn back (the shorter route) or keep on (a longer, more challenging route). I felt good. Not great, strong, and indestructible, but good.

I chose the longer route.

Getting home in time to make an appointment would be a challenge, but if I focused on technique, I knew I could do it.

Each stride mattered. My mission: mindful running. My feet fell into stride with a steady legato rhythm—this was not a stacatto day. Hips forward, limbs loose, I was feeling the groove.

Then, something...uncomfortable.

My right calf tightened. Then it tightened some more. It felt like someone was winching a catapult cable...in my leg.

One might have described it as a cramp. But I never cramp, which told me bad things were happening.

Something wicked this way comes...

I ran. Most kinks work themselves out with a little time and attention. I compensated, adjusting my technique as best I could, looking for that happy stride that would loosen the tension.

The pain continued.

No pop. No rip. No tear. No shocking sensations. Just...tightness. And pain.

And so I continued, for another mile. I continued until my entire calf was rigid with seizure.

Then, I gave up.

I borrowed a cell phone, called in the evacuation helicopter, and limped up the street to the extraction point.

BCB and the LAs rescued me. Pouring sweat, clenching teeth, I plopped down in the passenger seat, thankful it was over.

I. I. E.

We had no ibuprofen in the house. But we had ice. The eldest LA made a bag the size of my head that I desperately applied to my calf, within the wrap of an enormous hockey sock (sometimes being a pack rat has its benefits). Ice. Bliss.

The remainder of the day was spent in a cycle of ice and compression—managing swelling and encouraging blood flow.

"Vitamin I" acquired, I paired it with a half-dose of naproxin. More ice, then heat. Flush the area. Apply compression.

Swimming in the Nile

Tuesday morning, back to work, limping all the way to the office. Leg up on desk. Calf resting on a huge bag of ice.

Ouch.

Go to the gym to test things out. The good news? I can sit on a spin bike and pedal. I can't pull, and I certainly cannot climb. But I can spin and get up a sweat.

George, self-appointed spin class master—the Statler and Waldorf of the National Capital YMCA—declared: "Achilles!"

My medical crew...geniuses...the lot of 'em!

"No," I replied.

"Yes," he insisted.

So began the great debate.

Personal trainers, tri-athletes, and casual stoppers-by all got into the conversational act.

The summation? I should see a doctor to make sure that I didn't do any damage to the Achilles tendon. The pain and the swelling was centered on my calf just above the point where the tendon meets muscle. Rupturing my Achilles would be bad...like three+ months in a cast bad.

Paranoid and pained, I left the gym more freaked out than when I arrived.

Reluctant, but Needful

Ice. Ibu. Elevation. The cycle continued.

I made a pact with BCB. If it didn't feel significantly better in the morning, I would see my doctor.

It didn't feel better in the morning.

THIS is where I DON'T want to be...

I got an appointment early in the morning. My GP, Dr. Julie, poked and prodded, examined my bruising, and declared a muscle tear. How severe? Any impact to Achilles? What to do next? She referred me to an ortho and gave me a script for an ultrasound—to see if they could see anything.

Ultrasound showed...nothing conclusive. Not pregnant. (Not the best test to see—that would have been an MRI—but insurance protocols rule the day, and I'm sure the ultrasound is less expensive than the big, clanking tube of death.)

Off to the ortho. He poked and prodded. He stretched (holy-sweet-mother that hurt). He declared several opinions: a ruptured Plantaris; a low-grade tear of the Soleus; and no compromise to the Achilles.

So, the good news is that I have no reason to expect my achilles to rupture and roll up into my leg like a cheap window shade.

If the injury is a ruptured Plantaris, no worries. I didn't need it anyway. According to Gray's Anatomy, "This muscle is sometimes double, and at other times wanting." Apparently roughly 10% of the population doesn't have one (mutants!). And the treatment would be the same as a low-grade tear to the Soleus: rest, ice, Vitamin I until the swelling goes down. Then light stretching, ice (or heat), and more Vitamin I.

Ten days to two weeks to recover to 70%.

Poopity poop poop pooper.

Counting My Blessings, One Chip at a Time

I left the doctor and dutifully acquired a bag of kettle-cooked, mesquite-flavored potato chips. And a "party size" (whoo hoo!) bag of organic blue corn tortilla chips (one nasty binge balanced nicely by one moderately healthy binge).

Mesquite consumed, I let myself feel sorry for myself for a few hours.

Why? My training for my next three events is set back. It's a big blow. I have Pelotonia in less than three weeks. I race in Nation's Tri in less than six weeks. Half-full in eight weeks.

How the hell am I going to run a half-marathon in eight weeks?

To hell with the "Poopity poop poop pooper." nonsense. It's "SHITE!" time!

So, here I sit, riding the bus. I'm on my way to work. I'm down. I know it could be worse. I know it could have been a disaster.

But I'm lacking perspective.

Hopefully I'll learn from this. I'm still looking for the lesson.

There, but for the grace of God, go I

I can be a superstitious fellow. I throw a pinch of salt over my shoulder. I carry an umbrella on threatening, but not-yet-rainy days, and I "knock on wood" (or my forehead, which is much the same substance) when appropriate.

On rides, I have my superstitions as well. I like to wear my socks just so and I always check my front wheel's quick release after starting the ride.

And when I see roadkill, I always state purposefully, consciously, and honestly: "There, but for the grace of God, go I."

Seriously. I do. Always.

The Risks We Run

If you ride a bike, you will fall. It's a universal truth, like taxes. And death.

And if you ride a bike, you risk your life.

In the United States, fewer than 1,000 cyclists are killed each year.** It's not a big number. Yet, it's no consolation for the families. Numbers are cold, and all-but-meaningless. It's like when the doctors assign you with a 97% chance of survival. It means nothing—if you are in the other 3%.

We know this. It's a knowledge that resides deep down below, in that inner space where we contain our fears, dreads, and apprehensions. Sometimes it surfaces, like great cetacean breaching, disturbing our placidity with a crashing, splashing, distressed anxiety. Then...quiet once again.

We don't like those waters. We fear swimming within them, so we suppress our fears and move along.

To do otherwise would paralyze.

The Tragedy within Pelotonia 2010

A rider died.

A Reynoldsburg woman riding in the Pelotonia bicycle tour died Saturday after being struck by a vehicle in Hocking County, the Ohio State Highway Patrol said.

She had a name: Michelle Kazlausky.

She could have been any one of us.

But...They Did Everything Right!

A trooper was directing traffic at the intersection at about 2:15 p.m. with his marked cruiser's lights on, Norris said. He motioned for the pickup truck driven by Ervin Blackston, 57, of Rockbridge, to stop, but the pickup truck continued into the intersection.

Norris said Kazlausky realized the truck wasn't going to stop and tried evade by ditching the bike.

"So the bike slides one way, she's not on it. She slides another as an evasive action," Norris said. Blackston also swerved to avoid the crash, Norris said, missing the bike, but hitting Kazlausky....

Two physicians and a nurse were at the intersection along with a Pelotonia care vehicle, which follows the route to provide support and emergency aid, he said.

No matter what we do, how we plan, or how we prepare, the scythe will cut when the scythe will cut.

We have no control. We have no say.

When It's Time, It's Time

I suppose that is the message, the take-away, the lingering thought: when it's your time, it's your time.

It's stoical, but what else is there?

How else could we get back on our bikes for the return trip—knowing that we would pass through that intersection?

How else can we continue to ride, to pursue our passion? We have responsibilities. We are sons and daughters. We are husbands and wives. We are parents and grandparents. We are friends, lovers, and everything in-between.

Yet, when it's your time, it's your time.

Michelle—“Shelli” to her friends and family—was a mother and a daughter. She was a friend to many. She was described by Tom Lennox (Executive Director of Pelotonia) as: "a compassionate staff member in the rapid response lab at University Hospital East and a caring coworker." She knew the risks, and she rode.

Nagging effects of carpal-tunnel syndrome and a spill two weeks ago didn't dampen Kazlausky's enthusiasm, friends and family said yesterday.

"She still came to work, even with broken bones in her face," said Dr. JoAnna Williams, director of pathology at University Hospital East, where Kazlausky worked.

She had fallen during a ride two weeks prior to Pelotonia. She broke bones in her face. Most certainly, she knew the risks.

Yet, she rode.

We Ride On

Yes, she rode. As do we all.

Knowing what had happened, and what could happen, I rode. My friends rode. Their friends rode.

We rode.

We knew the risks.

And I will continue to ride.

I cannot live in fear, awaiting fate's next great blow. And I will not ride in fear. Riding is my passion and my freedom. I ride to live.

I never met Shelli, yet I know her...a little. She lived with purpose. She was a a thriver. She knew the risks; yet, she rode.

And by riding on, I honor her.

So, I will remain my superstitious self. I will still pinch salt, check my quick release, and all the rest.

And when I see death, I will always state purposefully, consciously, and honestly: "There, but for the grace of God, go I."

**Resources for that <1,000 cyclists each year statement...

• Helmets.org (Based on CDC data)
• Edgar Snyder & Associates (yep, ambulance chasers)
• Ken Kifer's Bike Pages
• Bicycle Universe

I'm in Good Company (The Collarbone Chronicles)

What do I have in common with these pro cycling giants?

• Frank Schleck
• Thor Hushovd
• Christain Vande Velde
• Stuart O'Grady

Here's a hint: it is something that we all experienced in 2010.

(pause)

Got it yet?

That's it! We've all had broken collarbones!

It seems that it is a rite of passage for cyclists. At least that's the way the New York Times describes it (For Cyclists, Collarbones Are Made to Be Broken)

“If you haven’t broken your collarbone, you haven’t ridden long enough,” said Ben Day, a member of the Fly V Australia-Successful Living team."

There must be something to this coming-of-age-as-a-cyclist thing. It's not a pleasant experience, but I suppose it's less painful than circumcision.

I guess I've ridden long enough...

It also continues an alarming trend of Lance Armstrong - Ray Whitney life parallels.

• Avid cyclists - Check!
• Testicular cancer - Check!
• Broken Collarbones - Check!
• Multiple Tour de France victories - Check!

Er...about that last bit...never mind.

Finally, an Answer

So, how did the accident happen?

Last evening I stopped by to visit with my Tuesday night ride group, out of Race Pace in Columbia . (They had a great turnout, by the way. it looked like there were nearly 30 riders!)

I wanted to say "hi!", and use the friendliness to help lift my spirits. It's no secret and no surprise that I have been feeling depressed since my injury. The weather is spectacular, and last year at this time I was routinely riding 40+ miles two and three days a week.

One of the guys (he races for Kelly's) rode up and told me that he saw my accident.

I nearly fell over (again).

"Really?' I exclaimed, "tell me what the hell happened!"

He told me that we were approaching the line (he was on the sidelines watching the finish), three across (just as my memory tells me), and that the guy on my right (the one who went down with me) "crossed over into you for no clear reason. You touched wheels, then you went over the bars."

So. There it is...

I was still in my line, and the other guy crossed over.

I slept very well last night (thank you very much) knowing that it was not something that I did to cause the accident.

I knew it was bothering me, but I didn't realize that I was troubled by it.

Now I know.

Next year, I'm winning that race...

...and it won't be in a sprint.

Race Report: Carl Dolan

You've seen the movie a thousand times:

The orchestral score swelled. The crescendo was near. Months of training and sacrifice were about to peak. Our hero (good, noble, dedicated) was about to achieve victory. His comeback was nearly complete.

We were on the cathartic threshold. Tears welled, but did not yet fall. Palms sweated and limbs trembled in anticipation. The apex of tension was upon us.

He powered toward the line. Tunnel-vision. Ears echoed the wind and the sounds of the crowd. Cowbells clanged as he sucked wind deep into his heaving chest. His legs pumped with adrenalized fury. They felt good, warm. No lactic acid burn (yet). No scream to stop. Acceleration.

Three across, they approached the line. Podium already in hand. Victory in reach. In his first race he would be first. He was about to win!

I was sitting upright watching dozens of riders hurtling toward and past me. The kaleidoscope of colors and the whirring buzz of the gears was...pretty.

Right hand clutched left shoulder. "Where's my bike?", I mused.

"Ouch," I added. 

One second I was surging for the line. The next second I was watching the race from a rather unique perspective.

How? What? Huh?

Morning dawned cold for the 17th Annual Carl Dolan Memorial/Howard County Library Spring Classic, hosted by DC Velo (there's a mouthful). Temperatures in the upper 30s greeted me when I racked my bike onto my car for the short journey to Columbia Gateway Center.

Like my first cyclocross race, my first road race (practically) would be in my backyard. Even though local, I was still up before dawn for a solid oatmeal and salmon breakfast (lots of honey and chilies, too!). If I was going to get into the 0800 race, I needed to fuel up early.

I was wait listed for the day's races. Circumstances not worth detailing prevented my registration. Though on standby, I was still having kittens Saturday night.

Amped and nervous, I approached registration as soon as they opened and declared myself ready, willing, and available for the first race. I was secretly pleased by the chill air, as I suspected it would keep some folks in bed. I also knew that a raft of riders had ridden the Baker's Dozen race the day previous. They were likely no-shows.

Carl Dolan is a 10-lap, clockwise circuit race around the Columbia Gateway office park oval. The road has two features of interest: a downhill, 90degree turn and a small hill leading to the finish. The turn is relatively easy. The concern is that every man needs to keep his line as the crowded peloton comes through it. The hill is a little over half a kilometer long. It is not steep, it's simply there. The finish line is at a false flat near the top of the hill.

Warm up?

I took a "warm-up" lap in the frigid air. I was ill-prepared. As I cut the wind, my fingers screamed in the cold. By the time I made the decisive downhill turn I could barely shift gears. My digits were useless. I was wearing a softshell gilet over my skinsuit (over a merino base layer), so my body was reasonably warm. It was my fingers that killed!

With 10 minutes to go they opened the race to the wait-listers. I paid my fees, got my bib number, and one of the hosts helped me to pin on my bib.

Minor problem. Once I took off my gilet, the wind viciously cut through my skinsuit. It was cold. So, when I went back to the car I quickly took off the gilet and wore it under the skinsuit. Fashionably obscene, but completely practical.

Did I mention I was freezing?

I got to the start and stood in the back row. We were seconds from the bell, so I didn't even have time to get nervous. And off we went!

And they're off!

I achieved my first goal—clipping in without landing on my arse. There were a lot of slow clippers and slow starters, so withing the first minute I was directly in the middle of the pack.

My plan was simple: sit in and survive. I had no idea what to expect from anything—the course, the riders, or myself. I was determined to observe and learn from the experience.

Nervously, the pack approached the downhill prior to the turn. In close quarters (and I do mean close) we accelerated, spreading out vertically, while the horizontal lines remained. Mercifully, everyone held their lines and we were through!

Furiously pumping out of their saddles, the pack surged downhill to the base of the "climb". Much ado about nothing. Everyone re-formed during the climb and we crossed the line to start lap number two in much the same condition as lap one.

Several more laps passed in this manner. I experimented with my pack position for the downhill turn, on one lap I even came through it first. I was poking and prodding, finding gaps and filling them, while watching the pack and teams interact.

I felt good. Really good. Surprisingly good. So much so that during laps six and seven I removed my knee warmers (one each lap). As we rode the long flat approaching the downhill I dropped to the back, unclipped a pedal, figure-foured my leg over the top bar, and took off the warmer, stuffing it into my jersey. Both times I was able to re-connect with the pack without stress. In fact, the quick sprint enlivened my legs and gave me confidence.

"Here we go" I decided, and I hammered it for the 300 yards to the line.

I easily crossed first (and to this day I have no idea if it truly was a bonus lap), sat up, and coasted. It seemed like a long time before the pack caught me. I let it pass and rejoined somewhere in the middle

"So," I thought, "I think I've got the hang of this."

I knew I could hang in, but could I compete?  I committed myself to stay near the front. I'd see what would happen. I expected chaos, but I thought that if I was near the front, a top 10 finish would be cool.

I was, after all, just sitting in.

We finished lap 9 and got the bell for the final lap. Things got interesting. Two teams jockeyed for position near the front. Since I was alone, I was able to slide into the seams and hold a position. No elbows necessary. As we approached the turn I was electrically attuned to everything. I saw the two lines in front of me, felt my machine working smoothly beneath my beating engine, and sensed the approach of the pack behind me.

We came out of the turn and the teams hit the afterburners. I was in the slipstream and got pulled along at more than 38mph. I barely had to pedal as the huge draft sucked me forward. Riders took their pulls and dropped from the line, tossed out of the passing train like so much garbage.

I was watching a battle of attrition between the two teams, and I was right in the middle of it.

At about 500 yards it all dissolved into individual efforts. The trains were gone, and 5 of us remained. I was still riding someone's wheel when we came to 300 yards. Someone attacked. Two went with him.

It was the three of us for the line.

I had a lot left in the tank as I took up position between the two other sprinters. There was plenty of room as we approached the line, three across.

I powered toward the line. Tunnel-vision. Ears echoed the wind and the sounds of the crowd. Cowbells clanged as I sucked wind deep into my heaving chest. My legs pumped with adrenalized fury. They felt good, warm. No lactic acid burn (yet). No scream to stop. Acceleration.

Three across, we approached the line. Podium already in hand. Victory in reach. In my first race I would be first. I was about to win!

And what did I win?

A broken collarbone.

On to Tales of Titanium Caterpillars→