Solitude

Yes, cycling in a group is nice. Going to masters practice, great. VO2 max intervals on grass fields with people who can really run? Lovely. But training really is a solitary affair. These are solitary sports, the running, swimming, and riding. Sure, I ride on a cycling team, but it's a low end, category 2 deal, and we'd all be lying if we said we were really in it for our teammates. Today I started out riding w/a friend, intending to take it really easy. I was riding his beautiful Cherry Bicycles steelie w/bar ends and tubulars, the kind of bike that makes you think you're pedaling a BarcaLounger. We spun past cows and farms, along marvelous upstate NY roads, for forty-five minutes. Coming to a T intersection that was marked, somewhat ominously, as Scotch Hill, he asked if I felt like climbing up to the next ridge. I demurred, wanting to stick to my easy guns. My buddy was slightly disappointed, I think, but as I turned back, onto a flat main route, I fell into the meditative state that only riding, running, or swimming alone provides. Soon I was dreaming about my race this coming weekend, not nervously fielding questions about it, or talking about bike parts. I realized that this solitude is part of why I train, the same way I used to go to the soccer field alone to work on footwork on a rainy day: alone, you're the fastest man in the group, or the slowest, or the most efficient, and you can dream big, seeing yourself crossing the finish line at the head of the race, or your age group, or simply crossing. I love to share this sport with others, but it's mostly a dish better eaten alone.

Philly vs. Federer

I'm sitting here this morning, watching Roger Fererer absolutely vivisect this guy who has only one (real) vowel in his last name: Hrbaty. I was talking with Tread this morning, about how Federer's not favored to win Wimbledon this year, a dubious honorific that goes to his Grasshopper and rival, Rafa Nadal. With Tiger's fourth knee surgery and Federer's (perhaps) dimming brilliance, maybe we're passing out of an era dominated by these two athletes, a stretch in which we simply expected them to win more than half of the events they entered. We've had these eras before, always in sports in which one player can exert his or her will on the game (I'm exempting baseball, which, except for closers like Mariano Rivera, Jonathan Papelbon, and Trevor Hoffman, is an alchemical game of skill and luck, based on too many bizarre variables for one player to routinely lift his team to victory): Jordan, Kobe, and Bird (among many others) in basketball, Gretzky and Crosby in Hockey, Brett Favre and Tom Brady, and, of course, Lance Armstrong. I'm not so naive to suggest that we're entering a period of parity (remember the NFL trumpeting the victory of parity in the early aughts, before New England won three out of the next four superbowls?), but the (again, perhaps) diminution of Tiger and Federer means something, if nothing more than a new sheaf of dominant players (Djocovic for tennins? No one at all for golf?).


Yesterday I got to race against a 19 year-old kid named Andrew Yoder. Last year, in his rookie season as a pro, he had a bunch of solid, middle of the pack finishes. This year, he's absolutely killing it. After coming in second at the Columbia Triathlon (ahead of, admittedly, a Chris McCormack who got lost on the bike), he lead the pack off the bike yesterday before getting run down by a very determined David Thompson. Yoder is the kind of athlete that should make the established order of triathlon squirm. For a not-flat course (Philly has several short but steep hills), he managed to average 27.7 MPH. His run wasn't great (although much better than mine), but he's 19, and certain to speed up.


Federer has just finished off One-Vowel, exerting as much effort as if he were at a tea party (looks like it, too, in those whites).


I got a great look at Yoder and Thompson yesterday, as I was stuck in about third gear. After a good swim, for me (right around 20:00 flat for a non-wetsuit swim, or 1:21 per 100m), I biked and ran sub-par. My bike was a pedestrian 1:01:20 compared to Yoder's blazing 53:41, and my run a slow 37:16. Sure, it was a sticky day, and sure, I came in 8th this year in the pro field, instead of 10th, but the field was stronger last year, and I averaged almost a full mile an hour quicker on the bike. I was, in fact, almost four minutes slower than last year's time. It's this kind of result that deflates an athlete. If I'd had this result three months ago? Fine, no problem. Here, in late June, entering the meat of my season (three half-irons and The Lifetime Fitness race in mid-July), I'm worried.

The Survival Shuffle; Updating June

Most of us have felt it at some point, the knowledge that no matter how hard you dig, your legs simply won't turn over on the run. You're left barely lifting your legs as you trundle towards the finish line, which suddenly seems way more distant than the other 10Ks/Half-Marathons/Marathons you've ever done before. Two weekends ago, at the Eagleman 70.3 in Cambridge, MD, in 97 degree heat and almost complete humidity, I found myself doing the survival shuffle. It was the first time since my Boston Marathon meltdown of 2004 (1:24 first half...2:51 second half!), and it reminded me, once again, just how careful you have to be in the heat. I'd gone out and pushed it on the bike, getting rewarded with the fastest bike split of the day (2:06:17), but as soon as my feet touched the ground, I knew things weren't going to turn out well.

After coming off the bike in 3rd place, I faded quickly. Richie Cunningham, consistent triathlete extraordinaire, passed me about 1.5 miles into the run, right at an aid station. I told him to go get the front runners, who were just up the road out of sight. By way of thanks, he told the volunteers at the aid station we passed seconds later "The guy behind me needs some ice. Badly." It was true. I was in the middle of a meltdown.


From failures, however, sometimes great things arise. I faded to 10th in the pro field and 15th overall, subpar performances for me (and a 1:42 run split; eeesh). But I managed to get 4th place American, which puts me on the National Long Course team for the LC Triathlon World Championships, in Holland later this summer. It's a long race for me (4K/120K/30K), but I seem to get better as the distance gets longer, so maybe it'll all come up roses.


This weekend it's off to the Philly Tri in, yes, Philadelphia. Updates to come, as well as some reflections on riding 112 last weekend in LP.

Yes Jens!

I'm a big fan of Jens Voigt, mostly because of his insanely aggressive racing style (think Kevin Garnett, but about 10 inches and 80 lbs. lighter (can you believe Kevin Garnett only weighs 230 lbs? Get that man on a bicycle, a really big bicycle)). Jens always wants to go, and if you've seen Overcoming, the film about Bjarne Riis and the 2004 TdF, he's someone you might want to hang out with (unlike Danilo DiLuca, who strikes me as fun as a cold cup of coffee). In Overcoming, Voigt is the joker to the other riders' stony or nervous silences. You get to hear him crowing over the radio to Riis "I'm going, I'm going!" as if he couldn't help himself. In one of the best moments of the film, as the various riders' ailments tick are ticked off, Voigt is simply described as "Exhausted but happy." May we all remember to ride as such.

It Happens

Just after the Columbia Triathlon on Sunday, I was trying to get back into the transition area to retrieve my bike. One of the benefits of having an elite license is that the race organizers will usually let you get away with stuff that they won't let everyone do. As I was waiting to get waved in, a woman asked me: "Are you that 19 year-old that did so well today?" As flattered as I was to be mistaken for a) 19 years old and b) Andrew Yoder, who absolutely killed it in every way on Sunday and came in 2nd to a blazing Chris Lieto, I am neither of those things.
"No," I said. "I had a pretty bad day. My seatpost bolt came undone and I spent the whole bike ride falling off my saddle."
"Oh. Wow," she said. "I didn't think that that kind of thing happened to you guys."
"It does," I said. "It happens. There's nothing you can do about it—just happens some time."
"Sorry to hear that," she finished. "I hope you'll still come back next year."
I thanked her and picked up my bike and bag and walked it out to the car, where I sat for a while under a sky that was getting darker by the minute. My training partner had locked the car, so I had some time to sit on the ground under a tree.
PROs do look invincible, as if they don't ever have anything befall them during training and racing, but actually they're just as vulnerable to setbacks and doubts as any age grouper. Just watch David Millar, in the final kilometer of a Giro stage last week:



I didn't toss my bike over the barrier when my saddle started its fatal see-saw (there weren't any barriers nearby, anyway), but mentally I pulled a Bjarne on my ride (Millar, for all his theatrics, was only copying Riis' exciting bike toss of more than a decade earlier). My teammate, Janda, passed me easily only 8-10 miles into the bike, saying later: "You didn't look very good."
I pretty much spun the bike in, and then headed out on the run, mostly figuring to just get a good brick workout at this point. I ran with the womens' race winner, Rebecca Wassner, for about 3 miles, and then called it a day and jogged to the finish. I certainly didn't want to DNF, so I cruised home for a pretty brutal 20th place overall.
It happens. You get ready for a race, train, travel, prepare, eat right, and then a small hex-bolt takes the day away from you. It's as much a part of being a pro as it is an amateur, and both need to remember to get over it quickly. When I played soccer back in college, giving up a goal (it was individual sports for me, even when part of a team) ate at me for days. Around 7-10 years later, failures still get to me, but leaving them behind are easier. Maybe it's the footsteps of 30, maybe it's because I teach kids, who are both unusually susceptible and resilient to setbacks. Anyway, it happens, and all I can do is look down the road to Eagleman (or the Hartford Crit this weekend! Back to bike racing!) and get ready for it as best I can.

Victory, Biologicals, Mechanicals...It's Race Season!

I've let a month go without updating the blog, so I'll apologize to the one person out there still checking in, probably (hi, Mom!). I spent a good portion of the last 6 weeks finding a job, criss-crossing the country, generally getting a sense of what the well-heeled (I now, finally, understand that phrase) traveler feels like on a regular basis. But I have a job, in Portland, OR. Unable to move to Portland, ME, just yet (I'd have to pick out a headstone if I did that, and I'm not ready for that particular level of commitment), I've settled on the other Portland, a city which was named on the basis of a coinflip (the alternative was Boston; can you imagine? Boston, OR?).


Aside from the job search, there's been teaching, training, and the first stirrings of the racing season. After the ill-fated 3/4 race in Central Park at the beginning of March, I didn't get in a bike race until the Marblehead Circuit Race at the end of March. The next opportunity was the Turtlepond Circuit Race, near Loudon, NH, on April 12th.


Turtlepond is basically a road race, w/an 11 mile loop repeated a number of times. I was in the 3 race, and we went around 5 times, climbing the start/finish hill 6 times (just for fun, they make you do that right from the start). I've done this race several times now, and know that if the pack stays together for the finish, I don't have a chance of getting away on the final climb. I decided I would attack the hill each time and see what happened. Cat 3 racers are notoriously low on pain tolerance, and I figured if I got a bit up the road, they would let me go.


The first time up the hill I found myself w/a small gap, but got caught on the descent. Someone else took a shot going up the road, but it was on the rolling section of the course, and Boston Road Club took up the chasing responsibilities and closed the guy down. The second time up the hill, I jumped off the front about halfway up (the hill is about 1.5 K, and pretty steep; I'd say it averages 10%, w/my limited ability to estimate grades). On the descent, a guy from the aforementioned BRC came across, and we started to work. About five miles later he introduced himself as Kevin, and thus began one of the shorter, more intense friendships of my life. A two-person break is a shaky break, and I put in a bunch of work on the flats, while he paced us up the hills.


To shorten this up, when we came around the backside on the last lap, a bystander let us know that we had about four minutes on the field. I'd been right. They hadn't wanted to work to bring us back, and had settled to race for third. Kevin gave me the win on the slopes of the final climb, and I had my first real Cat 3 win.


I was feeling pretty good about winning for the next two weeks, when I entered the 1/2/3 race in Sturbridge, and promptly got my butt handed back to me. Ah yes, my legs were saying, this is what racing really feels like. Second to last trip up the hill, and the group danced away while my pedals felt mired in concrete. Bye-bye, I said, and turned around to ride back to the parking lot. This, I've learned, is called "having a biological," and that's exactly what it felt like. Just as your bicycle will sometimes simply stop working, my body stopped putting out the necessary effort to keep up with that pack. As someone who normally feels like a pretty strong cyclist, this was humbling.


But fear not! More humble pie was on the way! Just a week after the Sturbridge/Palmer fiasco, I popped the cork on the triathlon season, and popped is just about the right word. I race this little sprint race in Brunswick, Maine, every year (it was the first Triathlon I ever did), and it's pretty much feast or famine. I've won twice, and had about everything go wrong the other few times (one memorable year I missed my heat start, flatted, and destroyed a pair of crankarms before one-legging it back to transition). This year wasn't quite as bad, but it was close. After a good swim, for me (around 6:00 for the 525 yards), I ran out into the 50s and rainy weather, hopped on my bike, and felt that dreaded clack, clack, clack of the valvestem hitting the ground. I'd flatted. I waited in transition for about 4 minutes for a spare, and finally hit the road, where an official quickly cited me for crossing the yellow line. Two minute penalty. Racing mostly on anger and frustration at this point, I hopped off the bike with my calves cramping in the cold and headed out on the run. It was one of my better runs for a 5K in a triathlon at 17:48, and I crossed the line 3rd. Pulling myself back up to the podium after so much adversity was nice, until those two minutes from the penalty dropped me to fifth.


But that's racing, no?


To bring you up to speed, I'm feeling good in my preparation for the Columbia Triathlon, next weekend in Maryland. I ran a 1:19 half-marathon on Saturday, on a hilly, windy course in Alton Bay, NH (Northeasteners, think Timberman Country), and just jumped out of the pool after a strong swim. Things are coming together, although it's good to remember that they can easily go wrong.


It's also good to remember, with the natural disasters of the past week (cyclones, earthquakes, tornadoes, yeesh), that we do have a larger responsibility to help those who need it, and that our training regimens can suffer a few lost days if you can find a way to assist those who, right now, can't eat or find shelter for their families.


As the foolish AMC Winter Caretaker from Lonesome Lake told me, foolishly, last week (and I foolishly repeat), stay safe.

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.