Into Athens - Pelotonia 2011 Day 1 Ride Report (Part 4)

Regrouping

"I just got here. Help me out! Don't make me pull!"

Perhaps not the best way to announce yourself. Not exactly "Bonjour, je m'appelle 'Wheelsucker'. Comment ça va?"

But it was all I had. And in the circumstances, it made sense.

The group was small—four or five riders, and they were cursing their misfortune. They were stopped by a light, and traffic, having lost the blessing of a police escort (bless those OHiPs!). I recognized Dave C. and Bob Kirk. Dave looked...bad. (Sorry to say it, Dave!) Bob looked...like Bob.

Bob's US Cycling racing age 63. The man's my idol (hereinafter known as MI Kirk). Twenty years from now, I plan to be as fit and centered as is he. In 2010 he was hugely supportive of me on Pelotonia Day 1.

I had no idea I was in such exalted company!
The guy's a stud. And incredibly generous, too.

When we finished last year—beating my five-hour goal by six minutes—I had something of a breakdown in Athens. Emotional floodwaters overwhelmed me, and I cried salty tears in a purging cry that emptied me. In 2010 I was completely invested in Pelotonia. I had come through a period of self-reflection—on this blog—that changed my life. Crossing the line in Athens was the culmination of so, so much.

And it all had to be released.

And release it did.

And as I stood there, banshee-howling, with tears and snot dripping from my face, there was MI Bob.

And here is what he said:

"I don't know who you're riding for, but you're a hell of a rider, and It was a pleasure riding with you."

Wow.

And here we were, once again, riding together.

What to Do?

As I recovered, drinking and eating and hiding from the wind, I sensed that I was surrounded by disappointment. Dave C. was hurting—cramps had gotten to him earlier—and he was distraught. For the most part, the others seemed to be suffering from ennui. There was no spark! No...something!

I moved to the front with MI Bob, pacing us through town. Dave C was in "game over" mode. For him, as soon as he lost contact with that lead group, his day was done. His ambition was to finish in 4:30. He'd worked for months to get ready. He was disconsolate.

I felt for him. He had, after all, been my contact with Rick. My entire PPPPP-PP strategy was built around my connection to Dave. I owed him a lot. And it was hard to listen to the tone in his voice.

Making things worse, we were in one of the most dispiriting places you can be when you're suffering: town. Stop signs, traffic lights, quick turns, railroad tracks, traffic: they're all obstacles; they're in your face; and they kill your legs with all the stop-start, stop-start.

And then entered the other worst place to be: flatland. A long, flat, wind-swept road endlessly unrolled in front of us. Misery. Pure misery.

I'd had a mechanical. He had cramps. Big difference. It's empathetic to state: when you're done, you're done. Dave C was done. It was only a matter of time.

So, what did that mean for me?

A standard paceline gives the point
man a lot of responsibility—
for good or for bad.

On the straightaway, our paceline was a mess. We just couldn't seem to get it together. Maybe I was being impatient, but I had bridged up to these guys, working hellaciously to do so, and I wasn't going to soft-pedal the remaining miles. I had my ambitions, too.

I knew Bob was strong, and there was a guy in an Ohio State kit (with 437 water bottles attached to him), who had good legs, so I suggested we try a reverse (rotating, rolling) paceline. It would enable us to get breaks, and it would pick up the pace.

This technique is different from the standard paceline. While the lead rider still sets the pace, he no longer determines the length and speed of the pull. It's the responsibility of the the overtaking rider to get to the front. Once on the front, that rider simply maintains, knowing that another rider is approaching from the rear at speed, and that a rest is soon to come.

When it works, it's an elegant flow. Bikes rotate with clockwork regularity, and the entire group glides forward with inevitability. It cycles beautifully.

In a reverse paceline, the overtaking riders
shoulder responsibility. It's fast and effective.

In our case, I hoped to spark something in the group. A reverse paceline mitigates the situation we were having—where riders got on the front, tired, and slowed the pace (or riders simply did not ride on the front). I wanted to ride. I wanted to see who wanted to ride. Someone had to try something.

It didn't take. A few of us took the point in turns. Onward we labored.

But I lit a small spark. The pace quickened.

One...More...Hill...

There was one more hill to come: Carbon Hill. We all knew it was out there; but I couldn't remember how far it was, or what led up to it. It's one of those landmarks that impresses itself on you, but that seems to come out of nowhere.

In Pelotonia's two previous editions I rode over it strongly—to the consternation of my companions. Like Starner Hill (whoa), it's perfect for my power-climbing style.

If only I could make it there!

Despite my PPPPP-PP, I had a problem. I was nearly out of water, and the thirst was upon me. Thirst is like...needing to pee—as soon as you acknowledge the sensation, you need to pee more. If only you could ignore it! In this case, as soon as I felt thirsty, I started seeing water everywhere. I just couldn't drink any of it. A stream here, a puddle there, water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink!

You caught me. I'm exaggerating.

I did have a quarter-bottle of water left. But I knew I needed much more than that to support my effort. And if I killed that reserve, I would find myself in bonk-town.

There's a literary/film reference you
didn't expect!

So I turned to Gunga Din, the previously-mentioned, Ohio-State jersey wearing, 437 bottle carrying, strong-legged fella with the aerobars.

"How are you for water?" I asked, fully knowing that he had several full bottles.

"Um, ok," he responded, confusedly. As in: why-is-this-guy-asking-about-water-this-can't-be-good.

"Can I have some?" I ventured. "I promise not to drink it all."

Kindly, and patiently, he responded: "Sure."

My faith in human nature restored, I drank lustily.

In seconds I felt stronger. I hadn't felt weak, but the speed with which the water had an effect told me that I was closer to the edge than I'd thought.

I thanked him, and we rode on—closer and closer to the hill.

Just like Starner Hill (whoa) I kept asking the locals where it would start. I knew there was a slight turn to the left (at least I thought it was to the left), but I didn't know where it would appear.

And just like Starner Hill (whoa) it was suddenly upon me—84 miles into the ride.

I shifted my gear, rose from my saddle, and found my rhythm. Just like Starner Hill (whoa), I told myself to ride, not to race. There were no King of the Mountain points here.

I crested and descended, relieved. The hard stuff was in our wake. Now we would run in to the finish.

And what a run-in it would be.

The Strait

We navigated Nelsonville and halted at the last traffic signal we would see before Athens. As we waited for the ruby light to change, I looked at my companions.

Tired: that's what we all were. Yet everyone was itching to go. When the signal did turn, we dashed off—across the railroad tracks, and up the gentle grade beyond.

Up we went, softly curving left, and then down to the long, flat, final road leading to the bike path.

This stretch was just that—a stretch. We shook out what needed shaking out, fed, and assessed. I felt good; Mission Control was still reporting a status of "Go!"

I finished my borrowed water and my own meager bottle. Rick was somewhere ahead. I was confident I would make good on my promise to Gunga Din.

Two dodgy twitches—left and right—and we were on the path—the Strait of Athens.

And there was Rick!

Looking for all the world like a goateed boy hosting a summertime lemonade stand, he had set a table lined with bottles. I screeched to a stop, swapped bottles, and surged away, to bridge back to Gunga Din and those others who hadn't stopped.

I was sprinting down the path when I realized: I was sprinting down a bike path.

It's not the tunnel of love, I can assure you of that!

Really? Is this a good idea?

Anyone planning to fly through Pelotonia's course (such as the lead group with their 4:30 ambition) is challenged by the course itself. While the last ten miles are smoothly paved and on an aggregate downslope, they're mostly on a bike path. Even if you had a police escort through all the previous roads, you would need to share these miles with local runners, dog walkers, kids, and cyclists.

It was a short sprint, but it gave me much to think about, as I slowed from 30 mph.

Ok. It's not yellow, and not merely a pole,
but you get the idea. Road furniture is the
stuff of cyclists' nightmares!

The group re-formed and we pacelined through the canopy. I glanced down and saw that our speed floated between 24 and 25 mph. On the open road, that was lovely! Here? I was so tense, I was waterproof.

Adding to the excitement, at irregular intervals we encountered "traffic furniture"—cycling parlance for "shit that can hurt you."

At each road crossing—the path intersected a number of minor roads and other paths—we dodged around yellow-painted posts. These were placed to keep motor vehicles off the bike path—a noble idea. But they had a devastating effect on our group.

Nope, no-one crashed (thanks, Holy Spoke!).. Instead, we became rubberband men.

Stretching, Stretching, SNAP!

We WISH we had rubber-band propulsion!

Curious things happen in traffic. When the head of a line of vehicles slows, the line compresses, with everyone filling the micro-space between bumpers. When the head of the line speeds up, the line elongates, with large gaps forming between vehicles, due to uneven reactions and accelerations. Then—as speed normalizes—spacing normalizes.

In our case, every time we would come to one of those crossings, we'd compress (to mere inches), expand (to several feet), and normalize, returning to our one-foot spacing, with each rider adjusting his speed accordingly.

This elasticity is a horrorshow, if you're not ready for it. Especially for the guy on the back.

On the front? You call the shots. You control the line. In the next three? Get gunslinger-ready! You're going to be braking blindly, and you'll need your fast-twitch reactions to not crash. On the back?

Well, that's where it gets bad. If you're near the rear you have the greatest distance to cover when the line accelerates. You're a rubberband man.





Why?

Let's say the line is eight riders long. Normally, in the paceline, you have a one-foot gap between your front wheel and the rear wheel of the rider in front of you. When the line slows, that gap shrinks to inches (centimeters!). But when the line accelerates, the gaps can grow, the rubberband stretches until there's an average of a six-foot gap in between.

Then it the rubberband contracts; it normalizes.

The second rider in line only needs to close five feet (from a six-foot gap to a one-foot gap for a total of five feet). The third rider needs to close twice that (two six-foot gaps are closed to two, two-foot gaps—one for his gap and another for the gap of the rider in front of him. Rider three closes a gap of 10 feet).

Confused yet?

Here's the important part: On the back = bad.

The 8th rider needs to close a 40-foot gap. That, dear readers, is work—especially at the speeds we were sustaining.

The guy in yellow is off the back.
He's  got some work to do,
or he's going to be in the hurt locker.

So, being on the back hurts. But it's part of your paceline responsibility—everyone takes a turn on the front and drops back to the rear, rotating through the entire line.

But, sometimes you're on the edge. You're tired, cramping, sore, and just this side of being cooked. If—God forbid!—you are stuck on the rear and can't move up in the line, then every time the line slows, you're going to be sprinting for your life.

I don't know how many crossings that path had. I do know this: I never got out of the top four—I was happy to take pulls, rather than become elasticized. I was pushing the pace, despite my misgivings about racing down the path (BIKE UP! MOVE LEFT!).

And at some point we lost Dave C and others.

I'm not proud of it, but it's a fact: they was gone. I knew it would happen, though I'd hoped it wouldn't. Even so, in my hyper-aware, are-we-really-going-this-fast-on-a-bike-path (RUNNER UP!) mode, I barely noticed.

IM Bob, a few others, and I took turns pulling on the front. Gunga Din was there—and I had returned a full bottle to him at some point on the path—as was Riley Adams, with his escort and confidante, Richard Lewis. I know very little about Richard

Riley? He has a powerful story (and a lifetime ahead of him to realize his dreams). Godspeed, lad. You're a strong rider and a better person. May your wishes be fulfilled...

Off the Path

The final stages of the path include a long straightaway with woods tight to the right and open fields to the left. It's a fast runway that leads to a long, sweeping left. we hit this stretch and I knew we were home free—it was just a matter of completing the run-in. A shorter-pitched curve to the right carries you to a short rise and more traffic furniture. Careful, careful boys!

Then, POP!, you're on the street. You can feel the rubber bite the road as you bank hard-over, keeping your  speed in a tight, fast left.

For more than a few miles I'd been thinking about the finish. Who was going to do what? Did the group have an unspoken commitment to finish together? Was is every man for himself? How was this going to go? Would some folks get cagey and slow, looking for draft position in anticipation of a sprint?

I had no idea.

Until we came off the path, and all hell broke loose.

It was just like a Cat 5 race—everyone went, and they all went too early. We were a good mile or so from the finish—a long way!

I came onto the road and instantly got passed by IM Bob, in full-out sprint mode. Maybe he was trying to break away, I dunno. I stopped thinking. I reacted.

I jumped his wheel and tucked into his slipstream. We were surging ahead when he suddenly pulled up and slowed.

Shit!

Somehow I didn't crash. I was hyper-aware, and I was lucky. I shouted something guttural as I slowed, losing top-end speed. I watched several riders sweep past us.

What to do?

I stayed in the saddle and re-accelerated without sprinting. I needed a moment to recover and view the situation.

Everyone had sprinted out of the bike path. Now, they all slowed. We made the final right turn into the finishing sweep. Everyone was gassed, or they had simply stopped racing. Gruppo compacto. Or becoming so, at least.

Perfect.

That's a look of joy...intensity...desire...focus...passion.
I owe this photographer for capturing the essential me on the bike

I was behind the bunch as it re-settled. And I had no intention of joining them.

When IM Bob flew past me earlier, it triggered me. All my ambition came forward. All my hard work justified it, and the group's disintegration cleared my conscience.

I was going to finish. I was going to finish alone. I was going to finish strong.

It had been a long day. My abilities and my mettle had been tested. My planning had paid off, and Dame Fortune had looked upon me with favor.

In the morning I had declared: It's on.

I saw no reason to turn it off now.

Just as the group came together, compacting back into a bunch, I spied a gap on the left.

I punched my pedals.

We were inside the finish barriers, on a sweeping left turn.

I shot through that inside gap like a cork from a well-shaken champagne bottle. I had some distance! No one followed. I was clear!

I have no doubt that everyone in that group cursed me. I am absolutely certain that I was called names that I would prefer my LAs to not hear.

I didn't care.

I was completing my mission.

The finishing archway greeted me home.

I sat up, crossing the line, with my SURVIVOR arm thrust in front of me...

...in 9th overall.

...in 4:40—a 21.7 mph average.

...as the first Limited Brands finisher.

...wearing my heart on my sleeve.

...as a testament to what survivors can do.

And it was done.