#boulderroubaix

[rodeo-adv-labs]

@pchuckogram in the #dirtlocker at #boulderroubaix. 📷 @reidneuphoto

[goodwheelindustries]

Boulder Roubaix 2015

Photo courtesy of - in my opinion - the BEST regional cycling race and news site: Pro Velo Passion and founder + reporter, Mary Topping.

Rolling on 25′s. At nearly 130 PSI. Made it through 75 miles and endless bashing on carbon wheels with nothing more than a single dropped chain (which I flicked back on while rolling). 

Feed zone. It should be the section of a race with the least drama. Ride slowly. Find your man or woman. Take your drinks. Relax. Then race again.

No. 

The Boulder Roubaix feed zone, on a stretch of some of the most rutted road of the entire course, was where the pace picked up every lap and brought the most category congestion/crossover all day. 

But teammate Tony V. in consummate cool handed me bottle after bottle for laps 2-4. With me yelling and waving hands he calmly executed Boulder Roubaix Bottle Service™ to perfection.

The selection. Until halfway through lap 3 (of 4), every time I turned around to assess the group, it looked like we hadn’t shed a single of the 70+ starters. Fortunately, at the hardest part of every lap - it wasn’t even a dirt section, it was the false flat on the pavement going west on Nelson road - two Sonic Boom riders rode to the front of the bunch, clearly setting up one guy to break away and one to patrol (and slow down) the front. 

A guy I love racing with - Ken Benesh from the EVOL team - was right next to me and I could sense he caught a whiff of the same tactic I was smelling just in front of us (he and I were like 5th or 6th wheel from the front). As these two Sonic Booms lurched forward, the pace went from a double pace line to single-file-strung-out. Fortunately Ken jumped, I jumped on his wheel and we suffered. After 10 minutes someone behind yelled, “we split the group!” Sure enough. 

This time I looked back and our group was down to 15. 

When you get dropped. We go through the start/finish, round the bend on 41st, I surf up to the front and tell myself I’m gonna sit in till the homestretch and then let something fly in the final. My body’s still working, my bike is still working and now there are only ~15 guys to race.

But then I exploded.

A thought bubble as big and fluffy-white as the few clouds in the blue sky over head says - U H - O H - as I try for about 15 seconds to coax myself back onto the 8 or 9 guys who leave me, literally, in their dust. As they gain 5, 10, 15 seconds down the straight away before the right hand turn to the Nelson road downhill pavement section, I see my race crumbling before my tires. That is until a team-less guy in all black, who had covered literally every move and back on lap two tried, unsuccessfully to break away, comes drifting back to me. And - to my delight - Spencer Powlison. 

I’m thinking that if I have to crawl to the finish, at least I’ll have these two to ride with all the way there. 

We start trading pulls. 

I drift to the front on a downhill dirt road section, shifting and chain jumping, when it pops off and these two ride right around me. I managed to back-pedal and get my chain back on in about 20 seconds but meanwhile these two put a gap on me. But up ahead they round another dirt turn and Spencer washes out, crashes, and drops his chain. 

By now the hesitation from the all-in-black guy allows me to catch up and as we both look back at Spencer, wondering (and hoping), that he can rejoin us to share the work as we try to finish competitively. Spencer is delayed. Me and all-black push on. We share turns. I, at my wits-end physically, yell and grunt at him several times. Stop riding the edge of the road for fuck’s sake! You keep putting me in the gutter!

Despite our differences, soon enough we start reeling in the remnants from the lead group from which we were dropped. 

With 5 miles to go we pick up two riders from who have been dropped from the front and who are clearly unwilling to work with me and all-black.

The final. We’ve reached the finishing straight. By now, all-in-black and I are in hell, forgoing any of the alliance we’d formed and trying to limp home. And yet, he surges ahead. I’m thinking, “well, if I can just keep those two behind from catching me, I will be happy with the finish. I might be 10th or 11th, or something?” But all-in-black mistimed his surge or he got too comfortable as he approached some riders not in our category and sat on them to get a draft, I think. 

I practice “visualization” from time-to-time and did so as recently as the morning before on my pre-race training ride. I pictured myself having the courage to jump from who ever was around me - on this very stretch of road - looking back as I gained distance and saw the demoralization in their faces. 

Real life played out not so differently. 

As he seemed to slow in front of me and with little concern for the whereabouts of the two behind me, I felt it was the moment TO GO. 

Sure enough, I went past in a surge. 

I still had probably 800 meters to get to the finish line but I kept looking back and seeing the gap grow. I was digging so incredibly deep and in so much hurt that I never felt relaxed with this move. 

Until I passed the 50 meter marker, I couldn’t relent. 

As I crossed the line - besting this guy, the two others, Spencer - I felt high. 

Then I collapsed off my bike into the ditch.

I got 8th place. The end.