The McCormack Chronicles, Part One (and 1a)

So, after last month's abortive race-season kick-off (ended with a destroyed Zipp 404, some high-hip road rash, and some badass-looking (to my eyes, anyway) tears in my skinsuit and bibs), I didn't race for about four weeks. That all came to an end this past weekend, at one of the oldest road races in the Northeast, the Michael Schott Memorial Circuit Race, in Marblehead, MA (insert joke about broad Boston accent here). Keeping to my vow about no more 3/4 races, I signed up for the P/1/2/3 race (actually, that was my only option; like any good old school race, the men had three options: beginner (4/5), Masters 35+, and P/1/2/3). One of the chief draws of racing 1/2/3 in New England is that you get to ride with a lot of the big names, the real names: Jamey Driscoll, Tim Johnson (now and then), and the old-school Team Saturn guys, the McCormack brothers. At the Witches' Cup last year in Salem (which Mark McCormack won), there were no less than seven national champions in the field, most of them multiple winners. Yeah, California is warm and dry (until climate change changes all that), but if you want some hard-man studded races, come to the Northeast and jump in any of the big 1/2/3 races on any given weekend.


The race felt actually manageable, with a few attacks going off the front and getting reeled in quickly. I felt pretty nervy (first real race of the season), so I mostly sat in and tried to stay up near the front. Staying up at the front of a race is one of those things you know you should always do, but also usually manage to let slide. It's easy to say: I'll just go up to the front in the last five laps, forgetting that everybody else has the same idea. The dynamics of a bike race are bizarre, and I think there's probably some doctoral work to be done in analyzing how they work. Where else do you find a large group of people, mostly trying to avoid effort, and still cruising along at 26 MPH, average?


With two laps to go, I found myself towards the front, and 3 riders were about 100 yards up the road. I remembered Scott Wade's steady advice (Don't try to bridge yourself, but go with the guy that does), and sure enough, someone tried to jump and I went with him. Soon we were up in the break, and two others came across to help. It felt like a real move: seven people, all willing to work, most of the teams with representation. Fiordafrutta had two guys in the break, so I figured the other redshirts back in the pack would be blocking. Still, attacks have a hard time getting away as the pace picks up towards a race's close, and we were hauled back in a lap later.


With half a lap to go, I got a great view of the McCormack Brothers storming to the front of the pack. Gee, I thought. I wish I could do that. When I got to the little rise about 300 M from the finish, I was back in 30th or so, so I sat up. No sense in getting wiped out in a sprint for 27th place or so. Mark came in 4th, despite his brother's huge effort to put him on the front. A Fiordafrutta rider won it all, edging out a local CCB boy.


McCormacks 1--Chris 0


The McCormack Chronicles, part two, was slated to take place later that afternoon, at the New England Multisport Expo. I had been approached by Mark Walter, who organized the event, about taking part in a local professionals Computrainer TT (put on by Incline Training). Mark McCormack was supposed to show up, making this the second time that day I'd be competing against him. I was excited about this, because I felt that the load from the earlier race would put us on even footing, and I wanted to see how my numbers stacked up against Mark's (bike handling and race savvy, I can't even get close to him). Sadly, Mark had done two races that morning, and even he knows when to call it quits. Other dropouts were Joanna Zeiger (tired from running clinics all day, I don't blame her), and the always friendly Karen Smyers (sick). Janda, my teammate from the Craft Triathlon Team, was there, and that helped me turn the cranks over.


Time-trialling is kind of my cup of tea, but I was pleased by these results. I cranked out an average of 405 watts on the CT (McCormack's numbers are in the 407-412 range) and covered the 10k "course" in 14:15, which is pretty good. It's good to know that my bike numbers are there, and even after not doing very much bike specific work. It's getting that swim and run to come around that's going to take some doing. Oh yeah, and my sprinting.


Stay tuned for the McCormack Chronicles, part three, when I race against that other McCormack, the one whose first name is Chris, in the middle of May at the Columbia Triathlon. Maybe he'll bring his laurel wreath from Kona.

1999 Tour De Flanders

Yesterday the afternoon forecast called for rain and sleet, and I had to get in a tempo workout, so I sighed, went to see Daq at The West Hill Shop, got a wheel trued, and picked up, for my trainer pleasure, the 1999 edition of the Tour of Flanders.

I don't know if it was the film itself, with shots of Frank Vandenbrouke crashing three times on his way to 2nd place, or a clearly off-form Johan Museeuw riding the rest of the peloton off his wheel for 3rd, or a marvelous Peter Van Petegem with nary a grimace on his face as he made the decisive final attack on the brutal Bosberg, but my wattage figures for the tempo repeats were up, and like, way up, from my last trainer based tempo workouts. About a month ago I was struggling to average 315 watts for 15 minutes. Yesterday it was comparatively easy to average 340, then 334 and 333 in the final interval. Corresponding HRs were (averages all) 154, 155, 156, about what I'd expect due to cardiac drift. So, I recommend it, and here's a little snippet to send you out looking for the video.

Grammatical Grumbles

"What?!" you're thinking (all three of you that read this sometimes woefully inconsistent blog). "He disappears for two weeks and then returns with a English language usage quibble?" Fear not, brave readers of chrisbagg.blogspot.com, this post will connect, however tangentially, to the world of bikes and bike racing.

Before I vent my rage, however, a quick apology. I've been out traipsing the West Coast, scouting new job locations that will take me away from this winter of hell in the Northeast. While out there, I had to attend to things like the thickness of my Windsor knot, and whether or not I should wear the jacket to the interview (not, I went with, and it was the right decision; what teachers (at schools I would like to teach at, anyway) wear blue blazers to work?). So the blog suffered. But I'm back, and using a little invective to get things rolling. No worries, I'll be back to my good-natured earnest self tomorrow.

I get to be good-natured and earnest because I can go to blogs like Bike Snob NYC and get my fill of invective and rage. The bike snob is a smart guy, as you can tell from the quality of his writing and general sangfroid. So I was dismayed, in today's post, to find this:

"If I were a doctor, and this were a fixed-gear colonoscopy, then I just found two growths. I’ve also just tested them, and by God, they’re malignant! So what must we do, you ask? The answer is simple. We must do as the doctor would do: nip them in the butt."

For context's sake, he's talking about top tube mounted brake levers, something I'll confess I've never seen (for good reason, I believe; why the hell would you put your brakes there?). But here's the problem. I'm a lover of mixed metaphors, but only when I want to hold someone up for some light ridicule. The saying is "Nip it in the BUD." It's a gardening metaphor, and it means to cut something off before it grows. So the Bike Snob has his connotation correct, but his metaphor is confused. Doctors don't, last I check, garden regularly. They probably do nip things in the butt every now and then, but usually this kind of thing only happens around nasty little dogs.

Keep your knees in, and your published metaphors unmixed, people.

The Giro Almost (The Trip, Day 13)

I usually don't like to pan things, especially something that's responsible for my continued existence on Earth, but I have to give a resounding Bronx Cheer to the Giro Almost (yes, I have anagrammed and added a letter to this popular helmet's title). Sure, Lance wore one, and it's supposed to, like, make your head cooler than if you weren't wearing a helmet at all, but this hardhat has been nothing but a hassle from the moment it came out of the box. A few reasons:

1: The Fit. The Almost uses a kind of slide/release cinch mechanism located at the back of your head. This mechanism has two faults. One, you can't make it small enough (I had a size large and I do not have a small head; go ahead, I left myself open for that one), and two, it breaks easily. In fact, that's the second problem with this helmet...

2: It breaks easily. The suspension system (more on that below) is attached to the helmet's foam in two places, with a sort of rivet/button system, right at the rider's temples. Both of my rivets broke after only using the helmet for a short amount of time, so the suspension slides around pretty easily up top, which is not an endearing feature of a helmet.

3: The suspension is cheap and flimsy. After the attachment points breaking, the suspension slid out of place at the top of the helmet, too. You can now hold onto the suspension and the helmet will dangle, jellyfish-like, about a foot below the stretched and maxed-out suspension plastic.

4: It's huge. I look like a Goomba from Super Mario Brothers. Seriously. Put this thing on and you'll look like a mushroom, too.

I miss my good 'ol, white, Specialized Decibel. Classy, sleek, low-profile, and did I mention it was white? I'll be riding in Rudy Project helmets for this year, so I'm bidding the Almost farewell when I get back to Putney. Good riddance.

How-To: The Nature Break While Riding (The Trip, Day 12)

First off, let me apologize to any women who might be among the 14 people who read this blog (I have Google Analytics; I know): you may find this post to be of limited importance/use. Boys, listen up.

Triathletes are guilty of many sins against cycling. We mash gears instead of spinning them. We (although I would like to say I've never done this one) wear sleeveless jerseys (they're called vests, people, and they're supposed to be worn over other jerseys) with arm warmers. I've seen triathletes shamelessly use their aerobars in pacelines during group-rides. They cannot glue tubular tires or adjust their rear derailleurs. We cannot climb. We plaster electrical tape on our expensive carbon bicycles. We're much more likely to drop $1500 on aerodynamic wheels (bling) than we are to make sure our bikes are properly fitted.

But what really keeps the cyclists looking down their noses at us (and they do, certainly), is our inability to relieve ourselves without getting off the bike. I first saw someone do it in the flesh on a group ride in Portland, ME, several years ago, and I thought "I could do that." You can also watch a hilarious section of Hell On Wheels where you see basically the entire peloton peeing from their saddles.

Most of the roads I ride back in Vermont are, believe it or not, pretty heavily populated, so when I found myself in the middle of nowhere yesterday, riding Virginia's rural (but paved!) roads, I thought I could practice those skills I don't often get to use. So here's how you do it:

Wait until you're on a slight downhill (slight!). If you try to do this while going up, you'll fall into a puddle of your own urine.

Drift over to the right side of the road, and lock your right knee so your right leg is fully extended.

Take your right hand off the handlebar and twist your hips toward the side of the road.

Lean forward to get your center of gravity between the two wheels, and brace yourself by putting your left knee under the handlebar.

Use your right hand to navigate your bibs and to aim. If you're careful and relaxed, you won't have any problems.

Triathletes, don't try this on a TT bike. If you don't know why, go back to prowling the forums at Slowtwitch. You should also not practice this skill on rollers, but if you do, use a small-mouth spittoon and send me some pictures (or better yet, video) of you riding off said rollers into the wall, half-naked.

Tomorrow, the first of my gear reviews get going!

Skunked!

What do you get when you take three people, three surfboards, four wetsuits, one bicycle, two sets of wheels, a whole wardrobe of outdoor cycling clothing and neoprene, and send them to Chincoteague, VA, for four days of surfing and general beach fun?

You get three days of rain and, at times, 30 MPH wind.

It wasn't a total washout. I got out on my bike twice, conducting the good 'ol Ronde du Chincoteague more times than I could count (the headland on the bridge to the mainland was beastly, and the road had no shoulder; I attempted it once and came home shaken, afeared for my life). I ran a lot, going back to the old 2-a-day running training (I'd forgotten just how much I like running twice a day), and we went surfing twice. The first time was laughable, huge onshore breezes that turned the waves into dirty slop. We stayed out maybe twenty minutes and then almost froze trying to get out of our wetsuits. No rides, anywhere, except for one moment when Uncle Jesse stood up on a 1-foot reform about five feet from the beach. Day two of surfing was better, as the wind was howling offshore, and the waves were crisp, clean, and not-small. There were even a few barrels out there. That said, the surfing was still frustrating. The water was cold (around 45 degrees), but the heavy wind really chilled. I caught three rides, courtesy of Buddy Ben's 10-foot Big Orange, but also got whacked in the head by said giant surfboard, the aftereffects of which I still feel this morning. Uncle Jesse and I surfed for almost an hour, I think, and then tried to get out of our wetsuits before hypothermia set in.

Here's the thing about vacation, though. If Jesse and I really wanted to surf for our vacation, we would have eschewed further company (Jesse's girlfriend Sierra came along), crashed in a tiny hotel in Cape Hatteras, and had a more focused, but probably less enjoyable time. As it was, we woke up, had breakfast, I'd go for a run, we'd try to surf, have lunch, take naps, I'd run again, and then we'd cook dinner, have a few drinks, and then collapse on the couches to talk about radio and writing (Sierra's a fiction writer, Jesse's a radio producer, and I like to play around with poems). So although the surfing was less than perfect, the time spent in our rental cottage (a steal; the time to rent in Chincoteague is definitely the off-season) was marvelous.

If this weren't enough, there's a gigantic fiberglass Viking statue on the side of the road in one of Chincoteague's trailer parks (see above). There are also wild ponies!

The Trip, Day Seven: 100 K A Day

"100k a day, that's what you gotta do," says my friend and sometimes mentor, Scott Wade. Scott is one of those guys who's deeply misunderstood by those who don't ride bikes. They find him abrasive, short, and dismissive. He can be all of these things. But his attitude isn't born of anger, or aggression, or dislike of his fellow human beings, I think. Scott made a living for years riding bikes, both off- and 0n-road. He's a formal cyclocross national champion. He wrenches bikes in the summer and grinds skis in the winter. Whenever I asked him for advice about racing, he'd give me the short, dismissive version ("You just never got it done this season, did you, Bagg? Huh, did you?"), but if I waited, soon he'd be the one doing all the talking ("You gotta keep attacking—one of you goes, and then the other, and see who'll come with you, but you gotta mix things up, can't just sit at the back and just suck."). When I told him I wanted to be a Cat 2, he shrugged and said "100k a day. You want it, go do it."

In no way do I average 100k a day, and in that simple rubric I see my promise as a road racer: talented, but not enough time in the saddle (since I'm primarily a triathlete, it's hard to find time to ride 62 miles a day) to regularly take away the Cat 3 races. But today was a 100k day, down in the James River Valley of Northern Virginia. Doesn't anyone else know about the riding here? Why was I the only cyclist I saw out there today? Perfect pavement, good temperatures, a good mixture of flats and climbs, beauty, beauty, beauty...

I set out from Scottesville at 10:30, and didn't check my odometer for forty minutes, at which point I'd covered almost 15 miles, all at an easy cadence and heart rate. One of those stretches in which you feel what it's like to truly co-exist with your bicycle, in which there's no wasted energy (I had a tailwind). I've been trying to ride with a higher cadence, and the PowerTap helps with that. Turns out that my "comfortable" cadence is around 78-80, i.e. I'm a masher, not a spinner. So I've been trying to hold that 85-95 rpm that'll keep everything efficient.

As always, there was a bit of a dip in spirits halfway through, when I was starting to get dehydrated and sugar-low, but both of those issues were easily fixed, as I had about fifteen caramel PowergGels with me (has anyone else had these? They're amazing; I like to eat them for dessert). Having weathered that challenge, I realized my rear wheel felt squirrely, the way a wheel feels when it's getting a bit low on PSI. I pulled over and pressed, and could almost bottom out the tire on the rim. Not good. I must have picked up a slow leak. I loaded a CO2 cartridge into my pump, thinking I would just pump up the leaky tube and change it at the car, and realized I had bought threaded, not unthreaded cartridges; they wouldn't work. My only choice was to pedal the last 9 miles incredibly gingerly, trying to keep my weight off the back wheel and avoiding all bumps in the road. Looking over my powerfile for this workout, you can tell I was nervous: I rode about five miles per hour faster during that period than my average for the whole ride. But I made it back to the car as the rear wheel was taking on that tire pressure you associate with tubular 'cross tires: nice and mushy.

I got home, ate a bunch of rice and beans, and fell into one of those post ride naps that, at first, you think you won't need, and then totally pass out into oblivion. I met Jesse and Sierra for a swim, and then Jesse and I cooked dinner before packing the car for Chincoteague. Come next post, I should have spent some time in the Atlantic Ocean on a long plank of foam and resin. I'll let you know how it goes.