ECCC Easterns Road Race

Friday afternoon, against my better judgement, I packed into the van and we drove the 7 hours up to Hanover, NH. Despite my earlier sentiments about early season collegiate racing, here I was, ready to do it all over again.

I skipped Saturday's TTT and crit because we felt our Men's B TTT would be more competitive than an A team, and well...I just don't care too much for crits. They were fun to watch though, and I got to see a couple crashes and near misses on a tight turner at the bottom of the course.

Sunday was decidedly the big day- a 102 mile road race in the western section of the White Mountains. Given that my longest ride this spring was 70-75 miles, my longest race ever was 74 miles, and my recent lack of energy, I wasn't expecting much. With two 51 mile loops, I figured I could pull off if I wasn't feeling it.

Despite my total lack of expectations, I was still nervous on Sunday morning and had a hard time eating breakfast. I knew I had to eat, but I just was not hungry. It also didn't help that I had been doing my best to stay on top of hydration for the previous 24 hours- the water kept my appetite pretty low. I forced down a big waffle and a banana and we hit the road.

In typical fashion for a race this long and hilly the race started pretty comfortably. I was tailgunning the field as usual, but made some small efforts to integrate here and there. In any case, I was sitting on Jamey Driscoll's wheel and next to Josh Lipka so I felt like that couldn't be that bad of a spot. The 20 miles of flat prior to the 1100' and 1600' climbs was decidedly not the selection point. I kept on top of drinking and downed a Gu after probably 45 minutes of riding.

As we got to the first climb, an 1100' vertical rise over Kinsman Notch, the pace quickened but it wasn't anything to make a big deal about. The climb was rather gradual the entire time, with few gradient changes. I used the opportunity to get towards the front of the pack so that I could drift back a bit on the descent if needed. This section of road was really amazing- very wide with good pavement...and there were still snowbanks on the side of the road.

A quick, 50mph+ descent followed the crest of the climb. I still don't quite trust my bike/wheels after the death shimmy at Penn State so my descending skills have been rather lackluster to say the least. Naturally I lost some distance on this drop, but it wasn't a big deal. As the field coalesced near the bottom, I coasted right into the rear. We made a hard right turn onto Rt 118 and began the big climb on course.

(I should note that Rt. 118 was the sketchy crazy road we used to get to Waterville Valley back in February...who knew I'd be racing up/down it.)

The climb along Rt. 118 begins with a fairly steep initial section- no significant walls, but it moves along at probably 6-7%, I'd guess. After probably a kilometer it levels off for another little bit. We moved comfortably (for me at least) up the initial portion and then the pace jumped pretty hard on the flat section. I was torn between having to big-ring shift to hold the wheels in front- not very typical for a road section preceding a 3 mile grind.

The meat of the climb followed as the road meandered around over frost heaved and broken pavement. Also, one can't forget the sand piles deposited at various points along the ascent. The field strung out here quite a bit. I made sure to mark the front as I saw the major contenders moving about. Cameron got right up front and was largely dictating the pace. I stayed probably 10 wheels back, tucked between Driscoll and Lipka. I thought Toby Marzot was with us, but it was apparently another Dartmouth guy (probably Eric Schildge...yet another Fiordifrutta rider). I kept forgetting to ID him by the National Champ armbands...

In any case, the climb broke up the field, leaving a front pack of 10-12 riders, myself included. Given the selection of the climb and my perceived effort, I was extremely happy. Once we had settled into a nice rhythm, I was pretty comfortable the entire way up. Given the company at the front here, I figured this was the move of the day. But...oh yeah...there's still 20 miles of downhill/flat to the lap/finish line.

As usual I was pretty weak on the descent. This was partially because I sat up to eat at the summit and I let gaps open up. Lesson learned. I charged down pretty hard, trying my best not to wreck as I swerved around and over frost heaves and sand piles. This was absolutely the worst descent I have raced. Luckily it looked worse when we drove it the day before, so I was somewhat prepared for death. As I hit the bottom I was in no-man's land. The front guys were just out of sight and I didn't see anyone in the turns behind me. Given the personnel of the break ahead and their numbers, this was not good.

After a kilometer of solo effort, I began to see a small group charging behind. I sat up and let them absorb me. This little group had the remnants of what I perceived to be the good riders/climbers of the ECCC. And Toby Marzot was with them. Maybe I hadn't missed the move after all. I got in with them and we held a pretty hard effort for the next few miles as we pulled up to the first group. I'd venture to say we held well over 30mph for several miles to bridge up.

The catch made, I figured that now the selection had occurred. We had the numbers and all the top riders, right? Wrong. We cruised along the flat 20 miles at an extremely leisurely pace. Every now and then the pace would quicken to react to perceived threats...but nothing really happened. As we came into the final couple miles before lapping through, the pack grew exponentially in size as riders caught back on. We were all back together.

For the feed, I had prepared a ghetto musette (read: plastic grocery bag) containing one gatorade bottle, one water, one tiny can of coke, two Gu, and some loose fig newtons. However, I didn't plan on it being so damn heavy! As I stretched out to grab it, I was more than a little surprised at its weight. All the best bicycle technology in the world couldn't make up for this weight addition. My next move was to transfer this treasure of sugary goods to my body and my bike. This proved a tricky maneuver.

The feed zone was located right before a small rise of probably 6-8% grade. It was short, but ill placed. Given my focus on finding the hand-off man and making the grab, I neglected to shift into a reasonable gear for the climb. Coupled with the cumbersome nature of a plastic bag I had some trouble getting to my shifters. Screw your smug, super-euro musettes slung comfortably across your back. I did my best "bum with a grocery bag hanging off the handlebars" impression as I wrestled the bike over the rise. Once back on the flats, I set about dividing the edibles among my various pockets. Leaving loose fig newtons in the bottom of the bag wasn't the best decision either. I drank the coke right away, eager for its caffeine and its delightful carbonation that had me burping for the next few kilometers (I usually shake it up and put it in another bottle, but there was none to be had). I felt bad ditching the can, but I threw it in someones driveway so that they would hopefully pick it up.

The next obstacle in the "Brian is so NOT pro" race was the bathroom break. You cannot drink half a gallon of water/gatorade in 2 hours and not have your bladder about to explode. The peloton called a "pee break" and the pace slowed to <15mph. I tried to expose myself several times, but could not produce. I figured that my physical need to urinate would eventually overcome the mental block of peeing in public. Alas that never came.

As we came to a more wooded section I did my best cross dismount right into a thicket of bushes. This piss was a long time coming! Unfortunately as I remounted (more style points) the field had decided to accelerate back up the race pace. I spent the next several kilometers chasing to get back on.

I made the catch right as we came to the flat section prior to Kinsman Notch. I took some food and relished the ability to sit up and rest for a moment. As we ascended the notch, I began to feel the miles creeping into my legs. This was the first sign of impending trouble. I should have eaten a bunch here, but I didn't. This point of fatigue also happened to be around the 70 mile mark...interestingly enough my longest ride yet this season. (hmmm...) Then it was done- someone hit the front hard right after the feed zone and strung the field out. Both myself and Cameron were caught off, and found us chasing desperately to catch back before the high speed descent.

The two of us and a Columbia rider worked the descent as best we could. This involved a lot of crazy descending positions for my part. My face was streaked with tears from the wind in my eyes at those speeds. It was a ton of fun, save for the fact that we were in a "life or death" struggle to stay with the race.

As we made the turn on to Rt 118 and the big ascent, we could see the tail end of the main field. I knew we had to make the catch prior to the flat/rest section in the middle. We dropped the Columbia rider and started a duo paceline in a vain effort to gain ground. I honestly began to think we weren't out of it quite yet. However, the climb's gradient proved to be foreshortening their advantage. Even if a catch were made, the chances of holding on were slim. As we hit the middle of the climb, everyone was out of sight. A lone UVM rider taunted me in the distance as he rode by himself.

At this point I started to pull away from Cameron. I was feeling decent enough, and I figured that I could maybe bridge up to the remains of whatever attack destroyed the field ahead. Wishful thinking. I spent the next several miles by myself grinding away in my 39x21/24/27. I had a difficult time standing up, so I remained seated for the majority of the ascent. As I came around each bend in the road I was hoping for the familiar landmarks that would signal the end of the climb. They just never came.

My hands started to tingle. My vision started to get very wobbly and tunnel-ish. Here it was...the bonk. My decline in performance also was signaled by the fact that I was being pulled in by Cameron and some others. Either they accelerated a whole bunch, or I was on the verge of complete system failure. At this point I should have eaten whatever remaining food I had. But I was dying on the mountain and didn't think logically enough.

Instead of eating, I slowed further and waited to get swept up by the remaining riders. We all met at the top and we more or less "agreed" to ride to the finish together. Fair enough. As we crested the climb I finally took a bunch of food. but it was too little, far too late. I was instantly dropped on the descent, mostly due to my crappy bonk-vision and the fact that my neck was completely cramped. I couldn't keep my head up for possibly the worst descent I'd ever had in a race! I settled on cocking my head to the side as an acceptable way to see the road ahead. After a couple miles of this, I was alone again. The sugar had not yet kicked in and I was facing 20-25 miles of flat roads to the finish...

I was soon joined by a Drexel rider who bridged up after a few kilometers of impotent bonky time trialing. He suggested we wait up for a small group that was catching from behind. However, I still couldn't see them. I queried, "How far are they?" to which he replied "50 meters back." Had I gone completely blind? As an SUV slowly rolled on by, I figured out where they were. The woman in the passenger seat exclaimed, "Hop on back!" They were being motorpaced by a race vehicle, haha. Given the time gaps to the front of the race, coupled with the fact that we were out of point-scoring contention they said it was ok. Alright, that's cool. I lasted behind the car for about 2 minutes. Before dropping, I asked if the car had a rope, which drew some laughs. I wasn't kidding.

I was still completely out of it and I had yet to absorb the essential sugars needed to maintain even a casual training pace. The next 15 miles were a battle of wills as I put my head down and cranked whatever gears I could find. Eventually I began to feel good again and my body remembered what it's like to ride competently. In any case, I was still well outside of any remarkable finish placing, so I just set about keeping a steady consistent speed.

The sweeper car pulled up next to me with about 10 miles to go. Could this be the end? I sat up for a moment to talk with them. I was apparently the last rider on course. Everyone behind me had DNF'd and taken a car ride back. After offering a ride and food, I said I think I'd like to finish. The driver said that was fine. Back to the grind. At least there was a decent tailwind to work with. After a couple more miles I began to feel guilty, as the sweeper was more or less forced to drive at 20mph behind a single rider. I pulled to the side of the road and had another chat with them. The driver convinced me to not feel so guilty ("I got nothing better to do"), so I soldiered on the remaining miles to the finish (and the glory/humiliation that awaited).

I ended up 21 minutes down from the winner, Toby Marzot- check out the margin of victory. As I came through, the other Cornell riders were out at the line to cheer me through, as well as a bunch of other random people. I was that pity case rider. haha. But damn, I just rode 102 miles in 4:47 for a rough average speed of ~22mph. That's something, right?

I ended up 35th overall, the last actual finisher. A moral victory for the undertrained.