Nothing Is Easy - Pelotonia 2011 Day 1 Ride Report (Part 3)

Author's Note: I apologize in advance for some language that will appear early in this post. I try to be PG-13 on this blog. However, circumstances dictate otherwise on this day.

KA-POW!!!

(Heart leaps into throat)
      Fuuuuck! Noooo! That was me? Fuck! WOW! Loud! No!
(Glances back at rear wheel)
      Fuck!
(Looks ahead, seeing the lead riders roll away)
      Goddammit! No! Shit...shit...SHIT!
(Swallows)
      Rick! Bugger! Where's Rick? The plan! Get to Rick... Where the hell is Rick?
            Fuuuuuck!
                  Steady...steady...breathe...
(Breathes)

Poop.

It's amazing how many thoughts explode through your mind the moment your ride is flushed down the crapper.

Fuuuck!

Noooo!

Breathe.

Crawling

In which the author faces his fate...

No time for regrets, recriminations, or sadness: disaster focuses the mind nicely.

Could I yet salvage this ride?

Dave C. and a few others raced past—no doubt thinking that I'd blown up (racer-speak for "exceeded my limits")—and he called out to me. I shouted back "Flat! Where's Rick?"

Gravel = bad.
Mood = worse.

"A mile," came the response.

And with that I limped up the gravelly hill.

Complete concentration consumed me. My eyes were riveted to the road. If I rode perfectly upright, keeping the tire between the road and the rim, I might make it to Rick without destroying my beloved Zipps. If I hit a rock just wrong—game over. The rim would be damaged beyond repair.

Either way, I had to get to Rick. He wouldn't wait forever.

Each contour, fissure, pebble and gradient impressed itself on me. I rode steadily—and slowly—and in complete control. Few riders passed me, and I expect that those who did thought it was "game over" for me.

So did I.

Crunching grey matter under my wheels, I rolled, my breath sucking deeply the woody-scented, dusty air.

Mindful Breathing.

In which the author describes a tactic for managing effort (and mood)...

When the littlest LA is upset (frustrated, angry, wild), and in that state where she lashes out at others, I try to help her calm herself by telling her: "Breathe!"

Breathing works.

It's one of the main lessons I try to share with my spin classes: breathe mindfully.

Don't let the breathing happen to you. Be in control. Be aware. Use your breathing to meter your effort. Seek and find your rhythm. Draw breath from your belly. Suck it in and savor it. Feel it open your chest and cleanse the humours. Push it out and purge the demons.

Manage yourself by breathing.

It's amazing how well it works. You can be in the middle of a spin class climb—with your focus on everything but your breathing—and when someone says "breathe", the effort suddenly becomes...less. Even when sprinting, an exhortation to "Breathe!" centers you.

It's the same on the road. In the middle of an ego-bumping, frenetic group ride, when the hormone/endorphin cocktail is at its corrosive height, a reminder to "Breathe!" calms me. It's all still there—the chemistry and the physicality of the event—but it's managed.

Powerful stuff. Simple stuff. Internal stuff. And I'll be damned, if it doesn't work. Sometimes the simplest solutions are the most effective.

Sucking in the wooded air, I was breathing.

SAG Support

In which the author describes how PPPPP-PP works in the field...

The grey blur rolled upward and turned black. Pavement!

I was so far inside that I had no idea how long I had been riding flatted. Suddenly, a panorama opened before me. I crested the rise on the blessedly smooth tarmac and...there was Rick!

It's Qatar (NOT Ohio!). But you get the idea...

And there was a crew collecting their caches.

I wasn't dropped (yet)!

Harrraaghhhh!

I bumped down the hill and shouted: "Flat! Rear wheel!"

Rick was frantically handing-out bottles, sorting through what was who's and reacting to the moment.

Just as I rolled next to him, with his hands slotting my refill-bottles into my bottle cages, I heard him say: "did someone flat?"

With acidic adrenaline flowing through me like jet fuel! I shouted: "Rear wheel! I need a rear wheel!"

Rick jumped to the wheel bag, arms a-flurry like a dervish. I pedaled over to the truck, shifting into my lowest cog to get the derailleur out of the way of a quick wheel change.

And suddenly, with almighty urgency driven by my heightened senses, I had to pee!

As Rick changed my wheel, I leaped away and (with acidic adrenaline flowing through me like jet fuel) shouted: "I gotta pee!"

Now, I have no idea what Rick's reaction was to that declaration. He probably thought it a might bit strange. Yet, in the moment, I could not have cared any less.

I had to pee.

Many, many, many ounces later I came back to my bike, wheel changed and bottles full. I hopped on and started pedaling, getting a fantastic push from someone.

And the long chase had begun.

What Next?

Wherein the author describes torn allegiances and NASA...

Two hundred yards in front of me was OS Blair, his pink Limited Brands jersey a beckoning beacon. I mouthed some water and tempoed up to him. He seemed to have waited. "Let's work!" I declared as I pulled past him.

He was eating, and when ready he hopped on my wheel. The rolling road rose to meet us. I pulled, then rotated to recover in his wake. He pulled, and as he drifted next to me, he let me know that he could follow, but that he couldn't pull—he was cooked.

I grunted, and said: "get on." And off we went.

We approached one of the Clydesdales as he labored up another rise. I sat on his wheel to get a breather, and considered. .

Should I stay? Or, should I go?

On that day, in that moment, I knew I was stronger than either of my companions. But I like OS Blair. He was kind to me in 2010, and he had been a supportive companion all morning. Should I leave him? Should the three of us work together?

I had no idea how far ahead anyone was. Three minutes? Five minutes? After my misadventure, did the leaders form a paceline and drill it? Did they remain scattered? Were they strong? Suffering?

And what of me? How was I really doing?

I dove inside (again). How was I?

I checked with mission control:

All stations...report!

• Head? Clear and focused. Go!
• Lungs? Clear and calm. Go!
• Heart rate? Strady and strong. Go!
• Neck and back? Some stiffness, but not limiting. Go!
• Shoulder and collarbone? Sore, but manageable. Go!
• Hands and feet? Recovered from the Road to Roubaix. Go!
• Perineum? Just fine (thanks for asking!). Go!
• Legs? ...
• Legs? I was thinking! ...Um .glutes, quads, hams good. Calf?
• Well? Er, the calf's surprisingly good! Go!
• Feet? No hotspots. Ankle brace is biting into arch, but I can handle that. Go!
• Headspace? Well, we're having this conversation, so it's obvious that it's a... Go!

Right!
System check complete!
All systems, GO!

Nothing Worth Doing Is Easy.

Wherein the author makes a decision...

The body and mind were capable. Were they willing?

My major concern was my injury. Thus far it had survived the harshest tests. Was it ready for another?

It was gut-check time.

"It's not a race," I told myself. "You can hang and enjoy," I continued. "No one—but you—expects you to do anything. You're injured—seriously injured. Finishing will be an accomplishment, and something to savor. There's no need to work this hard!"

I grabbed a sandwich to chew on my thoughts.

You're here...in Ohio. You did the right thing. I know you were luke-warm about it this year. I know you've been conflicted. I know how many doubts you wrestled with just to be here, and I know that leg hurts like hell."

I chewed some more, I couldn't swallow.

"Sit up! Pace yourself! Cobble together a group and finish with them. Be a leader; but don't hurt yourself. It isn't worth it. Why are you even considering it?"

Chewing. Bitter. I couldn't swallow that. Peanut butter and honey never tasted so...bitter.

Thanks, Kara.

I reached down with my left hand—breaking the habit of many miles—and grabbed a bottle. As my arm came up, I saw Kara's artwork: SURVIVOR.

That's why.

I was done chewing.

That I could swallow.

And I was gone.

Chasing

Wherein the author discusses loneliness and rabbits...

When I raced Giro di Coppi this year, I chased...a lot! Who knew that it would be perfect Pelotonia preparation?

Me chasing. Practice makes perfect (or something)...

Chasing takes balls. (Stop snickering, you in the back! I know I only have one...it's figurative!). It's a leap of faith. You may chase and never catch anyone! (I did that at Coppi.) Or, you may chase passing stragglers without ever forming a cohesive group. Either of those options sucks your soul.

I had little information: I couldn't meter my efforts. I didn't know the time-gaps. I wasn't well-familiar with the course or the distances between landmarks (especially the upcoming hills). And I no longer had a power meter; the wheel change eliminated that.

So, I did the only thing I could do: I found a strong tempo; I swallowed the pain; I breathed through the effort; and I got on with getting on.

Loneliness

Chasing is lonely.

There's no other way to describe it. You're fighting the wind with no relief. You're alone with your screaming doubts and body sensations that universally declare: "Stop! Now!"

Spanish riders often describe—at the end of long stages of the grand tours—their "sensations". On good days they talk about having "good sensations" and being tranquilo on the bike. When chasing, that's precisely where you need to be: you need good sensations and tranquility. Which is precisely the opposite of what you're feeling!

So, how do you get there?

You need a surplus of motivation. Heaps and gobs of the stuff. You're entirely self-dependent. You need to have something inside of you that shouts down those screaming doubts and fills you with sensations other than suffering.

So what if the Yellow Jersey was on his wheel?
Cadel was racing his demons...

I love Cadel Evans. He's been one of my favorite pro riders for some time. He's a tenacious, tough bastard, and I absolutely love the way he's "real"—he wears his heart on his sleeve.

In this year's Tour, on Stage 18, he delivered a masterclass on chasing. With Andy Schleck more than four minutes ahead, up the road on the legendary Galibier climb, Cadel assumed his crocodile-wrestling, I'm-a-hard-man-so-to-hell-with-how-I-look climbing position, and dragged the remaining contenders up the mountain. Not one other rider helped. The chase was Cadel's. On that day he fought and battled and scratched and scrapped—with himself. He wasn't racing those behind him; he was fighting his demons.

The result? He cut two minutes of that four-minute deficit—in 10 kilometers.! On the Galibier!

And if you don't know what he did when chasing time in the penultimate stage, shame on you!

Chasing is lonely: even in a race, it's all about you.

Rabbits

Those Ohio roads twist and turn and undulate. You don't get a lot of straightaway. As a result, you never can see too far ahead. Sometimes, just as you round a bend or crest a hill, you catch a glimpse of another cyclist. Other times you're riding on blind faith

I spent a lot of time with my head down, churning, simply driving—mind empty, living the moment, breathing...breathing.

But when I looked ahead, I prayed for one of those glimpses.

All I needed was a flicker of color, and I would transform into a greyhound in the blocks. A glimpse would set my jaw and slit my eyes. It would flex my fingers on the bars, clenching the carbon, creaking my leather gloves. It made me faster.

How could I resist?

Rabbits: the other riders were rabbits. And how I loved them.

I saw rabbits. I caught rabbits. I left rabbits behind.

Each was a rung on a ladder. I climbed, ever upward.

Ahead, on one of the few long-sighted stretches of road, I spied a group ahead. That's what I was seeking. A train!

They disappeared. I dropped into the drops and paced. I had been making up time! A knowing smile curled my lips. I was going to catch them—whoever they were!

Another climb. Stragglers dropped from the group. I passed them, crested the hill, and tucked down for the long descent to Logan Dam. They were there!

As I hit the nadir of the descent, and started up toward the overpass, I could hear their gears shift. I was just about on them. I would catch them...there, at the intersection after the overpass!

I was no longer alone.