Back in 1993 biking to class on my 1 brake single speed I rounded a corner too fast and landed, super man style, in a privet hedge...major embarrassment, scratches, and dings only. Being 19 and 100% muscle saved me from getting too wrecked.
Not so today.
The piece of privet still stuck to my number, glued on by hydraulic pressure, is evidence of the force of the wreck---but I feel pretty lucky having trained and worked for nearly 20 years as a landscape architect kept me out of the ER. But rewind, why did I end up in the privet in the first place? Why was I back of pack behind a guy who clearly had a hard time handling corners? From the beginning then: Race time at 3... pack with family doing vacation stuff around me and get in the car at 11 and realize that I have a 3hour and 50 minute (not 3 like I'd thought!) drive, no gas, no garmin, and no lunch. I can make it if the freeway gods are good. Adrenaline and triage mode recall that one of my friends, John Sakalowski is racing. He can get my bib. Wayz is good: cuts off 3 minutes over google maps AND shows where the cops are. By the time I hit 93 I've shaved off another 2 minutes and will arrive at 2:45. 93 North to 91 South is always a speedway and I've made up another 4 by the time I hit Hanover. But then I have to pee. Hold it. The miles tick down and, luckily the eta does too and I get it down to 2:34 before I have to stop. Sweet relief and 2 clif bars next to the freeway; but I miss John's call: they need a photo of my license for my bib! Texting shenanigans and he gets it. Dark clouds on the horizon. I roll into the parking lot, like a rock star next to the CycleSmart van, and, as luck has it, John's car too. He pins me, the women's 123 race wraps and I get 2 laps on my new specialized turbos.
They feel good but I am shaky from the 3:30 adrenaline pump. Roll into the start line early, and after call-up I'm second row of 75. That is as close to the front as I'll get. Whistle and within 2 laps I'm near the back desperately hoping the train is longer. Light rain begins to drift over the road.
From the start straight an uphill turn 1 with minor divots needs to be hit with no brakes in order to save power on the rise watch the curb, light pole and the metal post and hedge. Turn 2 is hectic, with a grate and concrete lump at the apex but room to run on the outside and requires speed for the steady rise to sweeping turn 3 with manhole cover and street furniture and descent into turn 4 with a small water box divot at the exit then long drag to the finish.
5 or 6 laps in the pace settles or I warm up or I remember to stop hitting the brakes before the turns...and it starts to pour on turn 3 and 4 - oddly not on 1 and 2. I am happy - the turbos are as advertized and I can lean into the turns where other guys are timid. On 3 I find the exception: manhole cover slips my rear out a scosh... not bad, but enough to make me think.
Guys are getting dropped, and while I move up, I still remain at the back. People yelling over the downpour saying "gap gap huge gap" and I desperately cling. I see a sign next to the start line reading "55". What? I look at my watch: 19 minutes in. Maybe we are going that fast?
The downpouring moves slowly across the course and turn 1 is now drenched and timid guys are using the whole road. Mental note: don't be on the outside, don't use your brakes, 35 minutes in, everything is soaked, some of the road is flooded. It tastes sweet. I can't see.
Rounding turn 1 I stay off the brakes but drift outside a timid dude who keeps coming, I scream. I see the curb, he's taking me into it. I leap the curb, swerve the metal post and land in 1993.
Time for class, race over... Scratches, dings, tire won't move, chain is off. Nudge the brake and she rolls. Chain on, check. nothing broken, check. blood from somewhere. phone is on the ground. How? Pocket it, hope recording. Field comes around and I ride after it...realize I can take a free lap and check in with the officials. We banter. I need 2 stitches and will have to shave. She offers to fix it. Her hands are the size of oven mitts. I decline. Then get a shove back into the field. Which, mercifully, slows after a prime lap and I feel strong again!
I can see Meyerson in his stars/stripes, I get within 2 of Sakalowski... I see the 55 sign and realize that wasn't the lap card...15 to go. Laps tick down and I am tail gunning, but hanging in. I let the field get a gap and then reel them in without braking on the corners - it is awesome especially when guys go around me and I get a mini pull back to the group. 8 to go. And then my strategy unravels and a) no more guys behind me, and b) I can't reel them in anymore. 7 to go and the field is 10 meters up the road, 6 and 20; 5 and 50; 4 and the official merci-pulls me. Damn, so close.
3 minutes later the race is over. John finishes at the back of the remaining pack. Myerson says he had to race hard - fresh off winning masters nationals he takes 4th. Driving home in the rain was hectic. Getting out of the car some major sciatica symptoms--3 advil and a shot of whiskey it is back to walkable. Might need some facial stitches (the source of the blood) and I now have a true porn star 'stache:
Looking back, I guess I had a decent race - B+ perhaps with the lone hedge trimming incident in a super strong field. And while the physical prep and actual racing was an A, the drive, lack of quality nutrition, and zero warmup were a D, a C, and an F respectively.
