2008 Race Report #2: Vernon Hills, IL

2008: Race Report #2: Vernon Hills Grand Prix

 

Race Report, Sunday, May 4. Vernon Hills Grand Prix Criterium, Vernon Hills, IL. Category: Masters 30+. Weather: 60 degrees, 15 mph winds. Course: 20 miles, 50 riders, average speed – 25.9mph, average pulse 170 bpm, max pulse 191 bpm. Sprint speed 38mph.

 

Another early season race. I’m determined to follow Walden’s core principles this season as well as his race rules. I’ve documented the race rules in my blog, but have been saving the two core principles for an appropriate writeup. Nonetheless, in short they are, 1) Race Your Strengths, Train Your Weaknesses, and 2) Racing is the Best Training.

 

Since racing is the best training I’ve decided to abandon my ‘long aerobic ride’ focus of last year’s preseason and mix in more early season races. My friend Matt’s energy and enthusiasm is making it easy. He got 10^th in the Masters 4/5 race and mixed it up in the sprint – an awesome finish.

 

Another windy day, and on this 4 corner course of about a mile it means 1 straightaway with a headwind, 1 with a tailwind, and 2 with cross winds. It also meant a decent amount of suffering and the implosion of the field as the wind took its toll. After about 5 laps, I suddenly found myself on the wrong side of a split within the field, with 18 riders out front quickly getting a 10, then 15, then 20 second gap on our chase group of 20 (10 riders dropped out in the first few laps.)

 

For the next 5 laps I stayed in my “you are a sprinter John” zone and did nothing but draft and suffer, but eventually the slowing pace and continued visibility of the large breakaway overcame my natural weaknesses and I began to take hard pulls at the front of our field (granted on the tail wind or cross wind sections) and exhorted other riders to pull through and work together.

 

Over the next few laps we closed the gap to about 12 seconds, but meanwhile the lap cards read “3” laps to go. I watched Ken, one of my friend Matt’s Bicycle Heaven teammates make a huge effort on the headwind side to bridge the gap and considered going with him but had just finished a hard pull on the backstretch to pull us within striking distance and wasn’t quite recovered.

 

It took Ken nearly a lap, but I saw him finally catch the lead group. Meanwhile the lead group shelled 3 riders off the back who were struggling to organize and re-catch the lead breakaway. With two laps to go I ascertained that my struggling peleton was not strong or organized enough to close the gap and I decided to make a ‘go-for-broke’ effort to catch the lead group. No sense in sprinting for 19^th…

 

One benefit was the 3 rider group in between the leaders and my pack…

 

I timed my effort carefully and used the draft to my advantage and just prior to the first corner of the 4 corner course I accelerated up the inside and then shot down the second straightaway at 33 mph amongst blasts of sideways wind, catching the chase group just prior to the backstretch.

 

The fear of this kind of effort is difficult to describe. I can liken it to drowning. The effort to spring from the warm shrouded belly of the peleton into the suddenly roaring air in front of the pack steals the air from your lungs and you begin to panic for breath as your legs and arms burn. The most significant, yet easily forgotten effect is the taste of blood and steel in your mouth as you go well beyond your aerobic threshold to pedal beyond the peleton. Like drowning, as your air runs out, your focus can easily become all about the feeling of oxygen deprivation – but instead you must focus forward on the goal.

 

I coasted the corner on the tail end of the group, catching a tiny bit of rest. I wanted to do nothing else but rest and recover, but I knew that was a recipe for 18^th place and I swallowed the panic rising in my lungs and heart and then swung up the inside and cranked it up to 35, 36mph on the tailwind backstretch – a full out sprint – a mouthful of pennies and blood and a roaring in my ears beyond the wind – I was at my max. I kept the momentum going taking corner 3 full out and barely missing the curb. Finally I latched onto the rear of the breakaway group just as we entered the final corner and we headed down the finish stretch and the bell began to ring indicating one lap to go.

 

I continued my momentum right into the top 5 of the lead group, hoping for a few moments to recover from the maximal efforts of the last 2 minutes, but to no avail – the pace accelerated yet again and I found myself barely hanging onto the 5^th place wheel down the backstretch. Like hundreds of episodes in my past, my focus narrowed to the tread of the rear wheel in front of me and I followed like a dog on a leash, whimpering with the effort.

 

I still hoped for a small rest prior to the final two stretches, but the pace stayed high, and as we entered the second to last straightaway, my legs, lungs, and heart gave out and I began to drift backward, from 5^th to 7^th to 10^th, eventually crossing the line in 12^th place.

 

I was actually super pleased. In 31 seasons of racing I can count the number of breakaway gaps I have bridged on one hand, and the number in the last 10 years on one finger.

 

I have that sense… that particular looming confident feeling that things will align this year and that somewhere, at some point, I’ll be standing on the podium in a significant race.

 

-John

 

Preview for Race Report #3: On Thursday of this week, after some schedule juggling, I finally committed to my second annual European training vacation – this time to Gerona, Spain – home to significant portion of leading tour de France riders – Lance has a house there, as does my remaining friend in professional cycling George Hincappie.

 

I leave next Tuesday for a 4 day trip. Like last years amazing experience in the Monferrato Hills, Italy  - link - http://johnkcoyle.wordpress.com/2008/01/26/race-report-2-a-brief-tour-of-italy/  I will take lots of pictures and maybe even break out the helmet cam.

 

To ‘really living’,

 

-John

 

 

 

 

 

Race report 2008 #1: Beloit.. And why cycling is the greatest sport in the world

2008: Race Report #1: And…why cycling is the single best sport in the world.

 

Race Report, Sunday, April 6, Burnham Racing Criterium Masters 30+, Beloit, WI. Team - 60 degrees, 20 mph winds, 26 miles, 35 riders, average speed – 25.4mph, average pulse 161 bpm, max pulse 190 bpm. Sprint speed 37mph.

 

April. Nearly two months before I usually hit my first race, my friend Matt encouraged me to join him at this little race in Beloit held on a race car track. It was a small pack of riders and it was windy and I was not exactly in racing shape but I decided to race the master’s race on my way to Madison to do some housecleaning and yardwork on my former residence there that is still for sale a year later.

 

The pace moved in fits and starts and the wind came from all angles as we moved through the curvy race car track. I stayed in the back and as the effort increased, coughed the dust of winter out of the crypt of my stagnant lungs, and felt that uncertain burn of untrained legs. Nonetheless I warmed up and approached some level of comfortability surfing the pack.

 

Near the end of the race two small breakaways got away – 5 men in total and the rest of us were sprinting for 6^th place. I was pleased to feel that despite my lack of fitness, my sprint had returned after the heavy efforts of last summer and I began to feel that glow of confidence return – I knew I was going to be a contender for the finish line.

 

The final turn was about 450m from the finish – a long way by any standard – but also with a 20mph tailwind.

 

I made my decision midway through the race – I would take that corner on the outside and see if I could hold the advantage all the way to the line.

 

My plans worked out beautifully and I accelerated on the inside of the pack using the protection of their draft prior to the last right turn to the finish, and then swung on the outside of the two lead riders just at the apex of the turn with a full burst of hyperspace speed, seeing some shocked looks from the leaders as I slingshotted into the lead – 450 m to go, maxing out at 37mph.

 

With 300m to go I had about a 100 foot lead on the burgeoning field. With 200m I still had 90 feet. With 100m to go my legs began to lock up and the field began to surge. 10 meters prior to the line, the first rider passed me, and right at the line another rider swung by as well and I ended up 3^rd in the sprint, 8^th overall.

 

Nonetheless I was pleased with my relative fitness in April and ecstatic to have my sprint back after destroying it last season with overtraining.

 

 

So… why is cycling the single greatest sport in the world?

 

Three ages and three scenarios:

 

One: 35 - 75: Let’s say “you’ve arrived” – after switching jobs and questioning your career, finally, in your 30’s or 40’s or 50’s you have come to that weird and sudden realization that money suddenly is no longer the end goal – that you “have enough” to satisfy your needs – though not necessarily your wants. Meanwhile the questions pile up: “Am I really as old as my age says I am?” (How did that happen?) And then a little more subtly, “yes, where did my energy go? - and my waistline?” or, “How can I stay healthy?”

 

Two: 20 - 35: Instead, maybe you are in your 20’s or 30’s - finally ‘growing up,’ finally got a real job and doing well, thinking about career & family, moving up and moving out, fulfilling your potential - but wanting to stay in shape… how can I do it?

 

Three: 10 - 20: Finally, lets imagine you have a grade school or junior high school kid – band, drama, national honor society, soccer, football, track, baseball – so many choices - what activities should they choose?

 

Let me propose that the activity that the best answer – and I mean “best” in all its objective and subjective senses – is cycling.  Riding your bike is the best sport in the world.

 

I can prove it.

 

“Sure,” you immediately conjecture, “you must be some kind of cycling fanatic, aiming to convert the masses to your biased way of thought. Besides, who wants to cavort around in spandex and risk their lives in traffic?”

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CRnxEZJCey4

 

Possibly – possibly true – though I hardly fit the hard core, die hard fanatic persona. Lets instead examine each of the 3 examples above to determine whether there is any truth to my potential fiction.

 

Let’s work backwards from Three: the junior high school kid. Nominally, soccer, track, football, baseball, or academic pursuits are the typical achievement oriented activities for this age group. And rightly so – all of these have a teaming aspect and bring about important developmental opportunities of balancing individual performance against team gain. For most of these activities, true celebration and victory comes about from that of the group rather than the individuals.

 

Team sports are a mainstay of youth development programs the world over and provide many valuable lessons. There is just one huge, glaring problem – team sports for these kids tends to end as soon as high school ends. For some smaller percentage, it ends in college. And for that incredibly rare few it means a few years as a professional.

 

Regardless, the fundamental flaw of these team sports remains the same – they end. Joe Montana isn’t playing adult league football somewhere and for 99% of these talented (or untalented athletes) the result is the same – ‘retirement’. There is no extended ability to create a healthy routine from these kinds of team sports.

 

With the waxing age of the players comes a waning availability for opportunities to play them – the requisite leagues, fields, locker rooms, schedules, referees, coaches are in relatively short supply versus the “golden high school/college years” and the associated infrastructure and funding. So for a majority of team sports players it all just ends… and hence the legions of former football, basketball and baseball players the world over are now become couch potatoes, lounging and snacking - watching the games they used to play.

 

Indeed – what to do if there isn’t a league near you? Run, bike, swim, walk, hike, climb…Several recent studies concluded that grade school and high school participants in individual sports – swimming, running, cycling etc. were considerably more likely to continue their sport – for life – versus these highly acclaimed team sports. Further they discovered that with the corresponding continuance of physical activity comes a correlated decrease in weight, heart disease and other ailments. Indeed for many of the team sport individuals, they find themselves mid-life in need of finding a “new sport” and masses of these sports minded individuals join softball, running, cycling, and triathalon clubs each year.

 

Want to help your junior-high school student have a full, healthy, active life? Consider individual sports… in particular cycling…

 

Now lets consider Two: the twenty/thirty-somethings. Work lunches, late nights, travel and the associated fast foods, Friday night beers and cocktails – all without the physically active lifestyle associated with walking across campus or intramural Frisbee.

 

Witness the arrival of the second ‘freshman 15’ weight gain. Team sports may still be an option – and if you are single – might still be the best option: find a league dominated by the opposite sex and you’ve got a sure fire way to potentially ensure continued health (and the motivation to manage it.)

 

But sooner or later odds are you’ll settle down – and suddenly 4 hour softball games a couple nights a week with single girls in shorts and tight t-shirts, and post game rituals of pitchers of beer after the game may not fly so well with your fiancé – and definitely not with your pregnant wife unless you are both part of the league. And, seriously – is swatting an oversized ball and jogging a few bases really an equal balance to the beer, shots, hamburgers and brats?

 

At this point, running might seem the best option – easy to do anywhere, no equipment other than shoes and shorts, and even city living presents no serious obstacle. That is, until the first injury… Lots of 20/30 somethings decide to train for marathons – often a doubly noble goal of getting fit, accomplishing a difficult task, as well as raising money for charity. However, there is a significant downside. According to several studies running a marathon and similar extraordinary pursuits can create irreparable damage to bones and tendons. Even if an injury isn’t serious, a sidelined ‘occasional’ runner may well lose weeks or months of activity while recovering, and will likely be more cautious in the future.*

 

(*sidenote – in 31 years of cycling I’ve never had an injury that kept me from riding, and indeed, all injuries were from crashing – not from the actual activity of pedaling)

 

Finally, One: the productive 30/40/50+ year old. No longer in the full bloom of youth where muscle pulls are rare and bodies recover quickly, these maturing adults: professionals, teachers and production workers, working mothers and fathers etc. still need exercise. Indeed it is more imperative than ever for success in work, family – in life, to reduce stress and increase productivity, as well as to manage weight and blood pressure – with heart disease being the number one killer of adults in the USA.

 

Running remains a temptation – but becomes more and more fraught with injury perils with the exception of those naturally birdlike lightweight runners whose frames can withstand the pounding.

 

Now those other team sports – softball, racquetball, tennis, football etc. become more and more untenable – either from a schedule standpoint – or from an injury standpoint. In the modern office workplace it seems that a majority of casts and splints are a result of one of these sports – the sudden twists, sideways movements, stops and starts – these begin to push the limits of the aging musculature and thinning bones.

 

So… whats left? Swimming, cross country skiing, walking, and cycling. All of these are low impact sports and tend to be relatively injury free. Each has their limitations – lets start with swimming. For some dedicated few water rats that don’t mind being in a liquid habitrail with no sights and no sounds, swimming may be the perfect addiction – safe, all muscles used, aerobic, no impact – an excellent choice assuming you live near a gym with a pool that has lanes available and you don’t mind all of those other limitations.

 

How about cross country skiing? Potentially the ‘perfect sport’ for winter – scenery, low impact, all muscles, strength, power, speed, and aerobic conditioning – it also requires… snow. Not exactly year round.

 

So we are left with walking and cycling. Walking is amazingly healthful – a long walk burns fat, strengthens muscles, improves coordination, and gets oneself outside (weather permitting) to bring in that other significant contributor to health and reduced stress – nature.

 

That said, walking feels a bit mundane for many – and because it limits output, is necessarily a low aerobic exercise – very difficult to approach aerobic thresholds or test oneself.

 

Finally – we are left with cycling. An interesting sidenote here: guess what, according to a recent poll, is the number one preferred leisure activity for adult Americans? No – it’s not cycling, running, skiing, swimming, baseball, golf, soccer or football.

 

It is ‘going for a drive.’ Americans love their roads and their native invention the automobile.

 

Cycling is low impact – the smooth rotation of the pedals causes few injuries. Cycling is both aerobic, as well as anerobic – the body is naturally stressed to accompany the needs to accelerate, shift gears, climb hills. The fat burning characteristics of low aerobic efforts like walking are enabled during flat steady efforts. But this is complemented by the muscle and bone building strength exercises caused by accelerations, stop signs and hills.

 

So… there you have it – for teens, an individual sport like cycling creates a lifelong skill and interest that will increase their lifespan and happiness. For twenty-somethings it can replace time consuming team sports or injury prone activities like running, and for the rest of us 30+ athletes, provides a low impact sport that burns fat, builds bone and muscle and serves as a surrogate for the #1 US pastime of ‘going for a drive.’

 

But all that is a lot of data – let me end with two stories:

 

Story 1: When I was growing up – as a young teen – there was a guy in my cycling club named TJ Hill that led a lot of the rides where I grew up in Detroit. He was sort of ageless – lean, muscular, and incredibly strong. On club rides he would take the lead for long stretches and we would all draft off his strong legs and amazing endurance.

 

I went to college over 20 years ago and never moved back to Michigan. Nonetheless a couple years back I joined the email newsletter of my old cycling club in Detroit – the “Wolverine Sports Club” and lo and behold, TJ was still leading rides and a key figure in the club.

 

For the last couple of years I continued to read about his exploits without much thought – “that’s TJ” I thought.

 

It never really occurred to me that TJ could have aged in the process.

 

It wasn’t until I read a ‘race result’ from a 100 mile tour/race in Northern Michigan a couple summers ago that it brought home the legacy I had always observed but never comprehended growing up. Those ‘ageless’ guys leading the rides? They weren’t 20 or 30 something athletes – they were 40/50/60 something studs continuing to practice their craft.

 

The race result I read? 1^st in the 70 – 75 year old category – TJ Hill. 100 miles: time? 4 hours and 17 minutes.

 

70 something years old and he averaged over 23mph for 100 miles. TJ is now 75 and rode 12,313 miles last year (yes – that’s nearly 40 miles a day, every single day). He just got back from a two month training camp in Alabama where rode 58 days straight and averaged 67 miles every day.

 

Sure – he’s a freak – an anomaly of nature to do so much and do it so fast. But do this – go to a century ride or charity cycling event – you’ll be amazed at the number of healthy older individuals out making their mark and helping others.

 

Story 2: This one is simple. Think back to when you were a teen or maybe young twenty something. Remember how you used to skip stairs, or bounce down them? Sometimes you’d take them 3 at a time, and with a good rhythm seek to skip and reach for the 4^th stair? Remember sprinting all out to chase the dog or a Frisbee or having the control to leap off a stump or curb? Remember that confidence, quickness and coordination?

 

I am 39. I’ll turn 40 in August. I’ve been a cyclist for 31 seasons. Today I skipped 3 stairs (and considered a reach for the 4^th) on my way chasing my 7 year old daughter up the stairs. Sometimes in the winter, when work overwhelms and riding in the gym becomes a bit boring, I’ll start to feel my age, walking heel-toe when barefoot, clearing the cobwebs from my back when bringing things up from the basement – but I’ll tell you this: with the cycling season back in full swing and being back outside riding and enjoying the spring air almost every day – my youth is still here. I pad lightly around the house on the balls of my feet with a spring to my step no different than when I was 19, and when I tense my legs to chase my daughter or my dog out in the lawn – it is still with a burst of furious speed when I pursue her giggles and flailing tresses.

 

Its hard to describe, but after a good hard ride, you’ll never feel more alive. THAT’s why cycling is the single best sport in the world…

 

…because you can experience runner’s high without running.

 

To really living,

 

John

The Dohnal Family

Whenever I think of the Dohnals, I always think of the movie Parenthood. In particular, I think of the woman whose daughter was dating Keanu Reeves and whose son (Joaquim Phoenix) is in a bit of trouble. So much drama in that household in the movie - now multiply that into 2 daughters, and 3 sons, and you get an idea of the Dohnal household - mass chaos all the time. (And Jean Dohnal sounded, and even looked a lot like that mom in the movie)

The reason I know it was similar is - I slept on their couch - a lot. For years on end it seems I would fly into Milwaukee or drive or get dropped off somehow at their house and I would either sleep on the couch out front or on the floor in David’s room. They’d feed me and talk to me and make me do chores. Honestly I felt like one of the kids - just slightly better behaved - as befits a guest.

Bob (Mr. Dohnal) would ask me to shovel or clean something and I would do it - and then all the other kids would laugh at me - “You’re actually going to DO it?” They’d say incredulously.  One time, because Bob found out I was an ‘engineer’ he asked me to fix a light switch. I did so, but when I put in the new one, I reversed the wires, and for years I get hell for the basement light switch where ‘down was on, up was off’.

Growing up in a strict household where you didn’t contradict your parents, it was absolutely stunning to me that these kids had so much freedom to mouth off and disobey - and in my earlier years, for a while, I thought in some weird smug yet jealous way, “these kids are going to turn out all bad…”

Let’s see - David (Slacker) has done multiple duties in Iraq for the US military and is now currently overseas there in a high paying security detail - and will return home to his new bride in Alaska.

Brett and Kevin have both earned significant promotions in the military and are officers of significant stature and travel the world.

Cari is married and living a great outdoorsly life in Durango Colorado, and Darcie is a doctor with several beautiful children. She also won a silver medal in the 1992 Olympics and we traveled together for years on the world team.

So - why did they do it? Why did they feed and ferry some kid around they hardly knew (at first) back and forth to competitions? What prompts this kind of rewardless charity from parents with a large brood who are trouble enough on their own to take on multiple other kids as well and care for them? Why were those kids so nice to me?

I don’t exactly know, but they have set the gold standard. I do also know, that my continued skating during my college years, while living in California, was significantly contingent upon my ability to come stay at their house again and again, for years on end, to compete in those meets. And without that continued exposure to the sport and quality competitions, I would have never have made an Olympic team.

Thank you Bob. Thank you Jean. Thank you Slacker and Darcie and Cari and Kevin and Brett. Maybe it seems small to you - but you all have had a big impact on my life.

-John

 

On suffering…

Why does comfort breed distance?

 

Men and women all over the world toil away neatly in their climate controlled offices. Slowly and surely, like the awards on the wall, they become plated, year by year, by an insular coating of chrome and dust. Is there ever a moment where they realize that the light within has been trapped? And even worse, that it reflects away the lights of others?

 We “polished professionals…” has the combination our analytical approaches to business problems, combined with modern comforts of quiet cars, humming air conditioning, and the gauze of TV, Advil and carpeting – has this insulated us from the human features, strengths and flaws of others? Have these comforts so reduced our highs and lows, our smile and frown lines, such that we can no longer read each other?

 Designed by God and nature, the human body is capable of physically working at relatively high intensity without food or water for long periods, with the notable and needed side effects of hunger, thirst and suffering providing reminders of what the body needs in order to continue producing. Has it now become so muffled by the platinum sweater of decent living that its capabilities for “really living” are compromised?

 But suffering – nominally this awful thing to be avoided – it more than anything else strips away the plating – like an acid wash it removes this layer of chrome and dust and allows, for a brief moment, a glimpse back at our humanity, that human grip of flesh upon flesh – all the warm sweat of it.

 It is always amazing to me – the dirt of a race. Every exposed wrinkle becomes black with dust – upon inspection the suffering of the road becomes a fine tracery of black veins delineating the fold of the inner elbow, the creases of thumbs, eggshell folds of the ears and underlids and the worry lines of the forehead. Like a patina added to the contours of our modern life, humanity again becomes obvious and for those brief post race moments we ignore the normal formalities that add distance between us and use the memories of our common suffering to cleave to one another.

Here’s to “really living,”

John 

(snippet from 2007 race report #11 - the post race vibe)

Kenosha, 2005

Fri, July 22, 2005.

 

After Manitowoc, Kenosha is probably my favorite course, and in terms of spectators and ambience Kenosha has it all. The majority of the course centers on a park, that every year is filled with restaurant booths (this year Thai, Mexican, Italian, Brats, Corn on the cob, shaved ham, funnel cakes, cotton candy etc.), activities – including a skateboard and bmx demonstration involving a half pipe, a Disney troup singing and dancing and teaching kids to use a hula hoop, vendors – including bike vendors, banks, real estate agents and… grrr Cingular, and then a host of blow up kiddie rides – slides, bouncy castle, etc.

 

We managed to secure a sweet parking space right off the square across from the food vendors and 10 feet from the course itself by moving a few cones, and I headed off to register. I had a good feeling in my legs and in my mind – the music, the reasonably successful last few days, and the fact is wasn’t overly hot or raining added to my upbeat mood.

 

I stopped by the wheel pit and promised Jose – the head mechanic – my profits for the day – as I have done the last few years, and then went back and got ready. I couldn’t for the life of me find my supply of “Goo” and settled on a half of a Clif Bar tucked under my shorts.  I warmed up a little and then headed to the line.

 

There were a lot of riders – I’d guess about 100, but things started fairly slow, and I stayed in the top 20 for the first 10 of 70 laps.  A breakaway made its way off the front including an old friend Bob Springer, but we could always see it.  Another break started shortly after that one and I bridged up feeling good, but we were caught by the pack shortly thereafter. And so the laps passed.

 

The Kenosha course used to be pretty rough, but the recently re-paved most of the surfaces, and now it is quite smooth. The first corner is huge and wide, and the second corner has a rather sharp camber on the inside and a slight off camber on the outside.  On the backstretch, the road has a little chicane that can tend to crush riders to the inside and then later to the outside when the pack bunches up. Major pileups have been known to happen. Turn 3 is fairly wide, but is where a majority of the accidents happen in the last few laps as everyone tries to use this corner to move up.

 

And so the race went on, and I surfed the pack from front to the very back, but mostly stayed just behind the A*@hole zone – in around 25^th place – just in case a breakaway went. Meanwhile I tried my damndest to eat a dry Clif bar. I swear I chewed the first bite for 3 laps before using my water to wash the dry chunks down whole, and then the second bite I didn’t even screw around – I merely broke it up with my teeth and pretended it was a huge horse vitamin and slowed it down with water… And so the laps counted down… 60, 50, 40, 30, 20, 15 to go, 10 to go….. 5 to go…

 

And then that magic happens.. something odd happens in these last few laps.  The composition and harmonics of the race change – subtly at first, but quickly and completely thereafter. I would liken it to that feeling on an international flight – you leave the airport, taxi out and head off into the skies, and everything is English spoken, mundane, and ordinary, and then you take a long nap and wake up and suddenly the food is different and everyone around you is speaking German or French or Dutch and while everything is the same – suddenly everything is different.

 

For racing, for me, this change is a good thing. For me it means that the guys that used to be out there taking long pulls into the wind suddenly pull off earlier, saving themselves – but at the same time, there are more to replace them. The pack gets tighter. There is anticipation in the air, and the whole group draws closer together. It feels slower, though the pace rally doesn’t change. A whole new idling, surging, and revolving of riders begins – a series of eddies and flows of inside and outside moves surging to the front only to be absorbed and drained backward through the slower inner current.

 

For 65 laps I’ve been pretty much a lifeless black and white thing – a worn-out  husk of a rider biding his time, trying to finish the laps, and then this magic occurs and suddenly I’m awake and alive – riding the tides of the race. Suddenly the game is on and it is a test of wits and skill and courage and effort to try and maintain the right position. Get too far back and you are out of contention. Spend too much time up front and you’ve spent all of your energy fighting the wind. I have a weird love/hate of this moment – I dread it for the 65 laps or so it took to get there, and then once I’m in it I get a surge of adrenaline bordering on happiness. I’m suddenly aware of the breathing of the riders, I’m suddenly aware of the tiny spaces I can slide into. I notice the crowd and the announcer and the color of the banners. I’ll put my handlebars within one inch of another bike when 10 laps earlier, 10 inches was too close…

 

So, with 5, 4, and 3 laps to go, the whole pack rode this way – shoulder to shoulder, bars to bars, with only a few dangerous moves on the left and the right in the chicane causing any considerable movement in the pack. In the meantime a small breakaway of 4 that was just off the front began to get a few hundred feet, and then few hundred yards… I floated in about 20^th, trying to use my usual tricks of downshifting into the corner to allow me to move up quickly into the open wedges out of the corner, but the pack was allowing nothing… I couldn’t find an opening, and nothing and no-one was moving.

 

Undaunted, I closed in closer – moved in nearer, touched a few bars or hips and drew closer to the front as we hit the finish stretch with 2 to go. I was probably in the 3^rd row now of an 8 abreast clutter down the straightaway, and then a move went up the left side – fast.

 

I bobbed and bounced and pounced on the first opening in front of me as bars swayed and shot on through joining the chasers and closing the gap into 3^rd – not counting the breakaway.

 

The man in red who led – he kicked it for a whole lap and drew us within about 150 yards of the breakaway as we heard the bell. We were heading down the finish stretch fast and stretched out with one to go, and I was in 7^th place with a 2 man leadout and a small break of 4 just down the road. My prayer was that one of the two horses ahead of me would lead us to the break – because if they did I was pretty sure I could take this one…

 

Unfortunately horse 1 gave up the ghost and sat up just after turn 1.  Horse 2 took us well into the backstretch, but his efforts dwindled midway down the stretch.  With a half lap to go I was left with a tough choice – bridge the 300 feet to the breakway, or hope that someone behind me had the juice to take me there.

 

I decided to take it myself and launched into a full sprint down the latter half of the backstretch. Oddly, the 4 man breakaway had apparently decided to shuffle and position rather than hold the pace high, so when I did catch them entering turn 3, I was coming at them pretty fast – maybe 10 mph faster than they were going.

 

Again choices – sit up, wait, and try to outsprint whoever led-out the sprint down the finish stretch? Or use my inertia to try and go over the top and gap them before the knew what him them?

 

I decided to use the slingshot approach and I pedaled through corner 3, and accelerated into corner 4 using their draft to slingshot into the lead on the finish stretch. I took the breakaway on the outside of corner 4 and entered the 300m finish stretch in first place - with a gap. It is a lovely notion this - to be in the lead down the final few hundred meters of a race - hundreds of eyes willing you forward. The noise was incredible and I put my head down and prayed I had enough speed to keep me there…

 

And so the next 200 meters went, and I could hear the drumming of the crowd, and the voices to the left and right, and for a little while I thought I had it – my legs were still turning, and I still felt reasonably strong. But as we neared the line I could feel and hear the riders who had followed my wake – both of them from the breakway, and as we hit the line, both swarmed to the left and right and left me third place in the sprint – but not by much.

 

A bit disappointed, I was still pleased with a podium spot and headed up to talk to the announcer after the warmdown lap. He introduced me as “Mr. Stoughton” and I didn’t really care. After my competitors were introduced I found out more about them and was pleased to find out that the race winner was the Junior national road, time trial, and criterium champion. Good company on the podium. We were talking after, and I started describing my Junior World’s experience in Casablanca Morrocco, and then I stopped short saying, “but that was in 1986…. when were you born?” and he said, “1987.” I don’t feel old too often, but I’m often reminded…

 

 

I stepped down and then had to run 100 yards to help my daughter compete in her first ever race (age 4). She finished with “pack time” in the peleton but had a good time, and then we set up camp to watch the pros race.  Robbie Ventura showed, but didn’t finish, and in the end the ensuing battle for the sprint jersey became the main feature as Frank Pipp and Abrams fought it out for the sprint points and the $5000.

 

 

Race Report 2007 #20: Tour De Villa Italia - Failure

September 2, 2007: Race report #20, Tour de Villa Italia, Canada. Failure.

The last race of the season – and my favorite. 

 

I drove the RV pell-mell from Chicago to Detroit Saturday night, arriving in Canada at nearly 1am for the race the following afternoon. All the sights and sounds of Erie Street or “little Italy” in Windsor, Ontario, Canada were the same as I remembered them since childhood. The little cafés with the weathered looking men smoking cigarettes and drinking tiny coffees in the early morning sun, the traffic barriers being set up and the towing of vehicles on the course, the construction of the announcer’s booth, the arrival of the riders.

 

I spent the morning and early afternoon in the company of two best friends since grade school, sipping espresso, sampling morning pasta and then a cheese pizza before heading out for warmup. I warmed up hard by the river, slinging through the gears and establishing a strong rhythm at 25mph humming down the path across from the skyline of Detroit.

 

I was ready.

 

I lined up with over 100 other riders as the sun angled behind the shops and restaurants lining Erie St. and Tom Demerling the announcer and the referee sent us on our way. The race was fast, really fast, though I didn’t know it as my cycling computer had decided to die on the start line, so I had no real sense of the speed of the race. To me it seemed “mild.” Later Ray Dybowski was to indicate that it was the fastest race he’d been in in over a decade – average speed was over 30mph.

 

I was determined to be in a breakaway if there was one. I was determined to be a factor for the win, not just the winner of the losers like last year when I won the field sprint for 19^th place.

 

I raced up front.

 

I danced in breakaways, spent a lap or two off the front, and generally stayed in the top ten for the first hour or 30 miles. I was happy, I was strong, I was proud, and I remember thinking, “so this is what it is like to be ‘one of them’…” A roadie.

 

With about 30 miles down and 32 miles to go I began to have trouble with the light of the setting sun – like it was too bright when we were moving into it, and too dark in the shadows. I felt like I couldn’t see the road surface, or that the jerseys around me were so brilliant in the sun that I wanted to block my eyes.

 

I removed my glasses thinking it was the reflective surface. It didn’t help.

 

I dropped back in the pack suddenly lethargic. I kept shaking my head, trying to clear my eyes. I returned my sunglasses to my face in the brilliance of the backstretch. Nothing helped. I was numb, swimming through the course now, faces slowed, claps become gunshots.

 

I was bonking.

 

How the hell was I bonking? I had eaten more than enough, I had consumed plenty of fluids, I had eaten 2 of my 3 gels at the 40 and now 80 minute marks… ohhh… Then I remembered…

 

I’d had a bit of a stomach bug over the preceding few days. Shannon and I had eaten some carryout on Thursday, 3 days before, and within an hour we were both retching and emptying our stomachs and intestines. I’d had only diarrhea since… but… my body wasn’t really processing all the energy I had so planfully provided.

 

I assumed my old position at the rear of the pack, and saved my last gel – perhaps I could squeeze enough energy out of it with a few laps left to go for the win?

 

The laps drifted by and finally with 5 laps to go I squeezed the viscous chocolate liquid into my mouth and then made my way through the pack. With 2 laps to go I was back in the top 8, and stayed there. With one to go I found the wheel of sprinter extraordinare Ben Renkema, and followed him all the way to the last corner….

 

Sun sideways, shadows black, bikes and bodies white I entered the last 400meter straightaway in 8^th place, got out of my saddle, pressed sinews and muscle to pedal, and…

 

…nothing happened.

 

The race went on around me, and I sprinted all out going backward, watching rider after rider pass me. Ben shot through to finish second at the line.

 

By the time I hit the line I was in 16^th place.

 

I hated this last 20 seconds – more than anything I can remember I hated the feeling of going backward in the sprint – the one thing that I am good at…

 

…That I used to be good at.

 

This failure wasn’t born of pain. It wasn’t a result of injury or illness. It was one of getting beat – of seeing talent, youth or ability overcome experience. Or so I thought at the time.

 

I pondered these questions as I had dinner in one of the fantastic restaurants lining little Italy, and as I drove home the next morning.

 

It was more than a month later before I put all the data together and had my middle of the night epiphany about trading fast twitch for slow twitch. The overload of training and racing had once again made me into someone else. Capable – sure. Strong – sure. But incapable of winning races.  I was now racing my weaknesses…

 

2007 was notable for several reasons: 1) I was in better aerobic shape in 2007 than EVER in my whole life.  2) It is the first and only year since 1977 that I didn’t stand on a podium – despite competing in 26 races over the summer.

 

Sometimes I blame Walden for the paucity of his observations. “Finish at the line Coyle, finish at the line!” That was always his advice and coaching to me. In contrast, it becomes obvious that he never said, “Get in the break Coyle, get in the break.” But common perceptions, pressures – this is what those voices say. For me to be in a breakaway – that would very clearly be me “racing my weaknesses”…

 

2 years ago I had returned back to Detroit for these same races for the first time in decades. With only minimal training, on that fateful Monday after the Tour de Villa Italia, I raced the Cat 3 race, the Masters 30+ race, and the Pro 1/2/3 race, and placed in the top 6 in all 3. The “trifecta” was born.

 

However much I wish it, I can never truly be a roadie. I am who I am.

 

I am a sprinter.

 

Maybe next year I’ll do it right.

 

-John

Race Report 2007 #19: Downer’s Grove in the Rain

August 18, 2007: Race report #19, Downers Grove “nationals”, Illinois. My birthday.

 

I woke on my 39^th birthday to leaden skies and cool temperatures. I had not had a lot of sleep the week prior, pulling an all-nighter, and a couple other late nights for project “Mythos” at work. Nonetheless, this race… Downers Grove Nationals… this was MY course – a podium finish for 5 years running, and 10 total podium finishes. In fact, a podium finish every year that I’ve raced it.

 

I arrived on time at the course, registered, warmed up with a jacket on, and then arrived to the line just as the first sprinkles fell.

 

Downer’s Grove in the rain… had never tried that before. Eight corners, manhole covers, fresh white lane marker paint , a steep uphill, two high speed downhill corners… a disaster in the making. I could still feel the itchy pink tightening glaze of shiny new skin over the road rash from the crash just a week ago.

 

We set out onto a still dry course, with a light drizzle. Within a few laps the drizzle heavied, and then became solid rain. The course then turned to the equivalent of ice. Every corner had either manhole covers, off camber sections, or wide swaths of freshly painted lane markers. Almost every corner someone went down. Within 2 laps, the pack became a single file line. Within 10 laps a majority of the 118 riders quit.

 

I sat in about 6^th place. Sometimes the top 10 of us were in a breakaway. Sometimes the top 3 were in a breakway. I just pedaled and held on, and tried to stay upright.

 

It was like walking on black ice when you have a little bit of fresh snow on the soles of your shoes. In order to not windmill out of control and fall, you have to soften every motion, control every finite movement as you try to stabilize, every fine motor control trying to eliminate the possibility of slipping. Gentle steering, gentle shifting, gentle pedaling – full circles, no hard strokes, no knee wobbles, and tender, tender braking. Quickly every part of my hands, forearms, shoulders and neck tired from the tension. Several times a lap a tire would slip and for a second I’d feel the vertigo of falling – until the tires would catch on a patch of decent pavement and then I’d recover only to try and be more tightly controlled than ever.

 

Riders pass me… and I watch disinterestedly as they go spinning out to the left or right for trying to ride any other than the widest smoothest line through the corners. Moving up became a very difficult and dangerous proposition. I did my few moves forward through the single file peleton on the hill.

 

The pack winnowed down. The crazies were eliminated. It began to feel like a practice. A couple guys passed me, and then one more. I let them in. I found the whole thing numbing really…

 

Suddenly the bell rang. I hadn’t been paying attention – after staying in the top 6 for the first 40 minutes of a 45 minute race I was suddenly in 12^th with only one lap to go. Normally not a big deal, but with the rain, moving up on this course was an exercise in risk and danger.

 

I moved up 4 slots on the hill into 8^th – but I should have been able to sweep the whole field – my power was seemingly more limited. Screaming down the hill into the next corner – there was no room to make a pass without entering the off camber zone with the white paint. Next corner was the same thing – no place to slot in.

 

3 corners to go and still in 8^th. But the corners were like ice and taking any other line than the widest was a sure prediction for a crash, so I bided my time, and slotted up one spot prior to the final straightaway.

 

Entering the final 150m straightline to the finish I moved up one more spot to finish 6^th. My worst finish at Downer’s grove in the last 6 years… But in reality even finishing given the conditions was a significant performance… But it was very, very unlike me…

 

 

Flashback: August 17. Scene: Friday morning at 6:30am and I’m getting ready for work. It is the day before my 39^th birthday and the day before one of the most important races of the year – Downer’s Grove nationals.

 

Too tired to agonize over what the numbers might say, I stepped firmly up onto the pebbled white plastic of our digital scale. Same pebbled plastic surface, same white feet with tan calves rising above. Something different though – even as the digital wheels spin, the numbers and the visual dissonance register at the same time 172.8 lbs – more than 2 lbs lighter than my goal weight – I had lost 24 lbs in 5 months.

 

My gaze traveled up from the scale and gathered the images of my thighs and calves – but with a discordant note. I glanced down and was transfixed by the ‘look’ of my legs.

 

For dozens of years I had experienced a regular disappointment  - despite all the training, weights, riding and skating, I never developed those massive oak thighs of an Eric Heiden or Dan Jansen full of knotty bulging muscles. Instead I typically stared down a smoother, slimmer version of the athletic leg. Neither heavily muscled nor well defined, the springy, smooth Elm-like bows of my legs had been a fixture for most of my athletic life. But this time it was different…

 

This time though they had a new look – gone were the thicknesses and rounded springiness of a young branch. Replaced was something harder, more sinewed, varnished, knotty. Like the water on driftwood the lengthy races had reshaped my limbs and in the light and shadows I found new angles, rounded cutouts, hollows where it used to be solid.  I was transforming

 

 

I never should have been able to finish Downer’s Grove in the rain – that type of race is for endurance athletes: it was essentially a time trial – something I typically have NO true ability to do. So what happened? I was no longer me – I was no longer the 10 second, Elm-limbed sprinter. I had transformed my body – by necessity, my body had adjusted after all the long races, miles and intensity, into some facsimile of an endurance athlete.

 

I had converted my fast twitch muscle to slow twitch muscle.

 

The upside – I could finish and even place in incredibly difficult aerobic races. The downside – as I was soon to discover, is that by cultivating my weaknesses, I had all but eliminated my one true strength – to go really fast for 6 – 8 seconds.

2007 Race Reports #17 & #18: Crashing worse..

August 11 & 12, 2007: Race reports 17 & 18, Elk Grove, Illinois

 

Somehow this quiet little Chicago suburb has developed cycling fever with major dollars to be won here over this two day series - one of the only races series besides the nationals to separate the pros from Cat 1/2’s, and the highest purse in all of American cycling . For Cat 1/2: $10,000 day one, and $25,000 day two.

 

Day One: I arrived and used my U. S. Cellular parking passes, complements of Keith Blackmon and our sponsorship there, to park right by the course. As I headed for the registration area, I realized that I had no money. Go figure. Then I passed Frankie Andreu enroute, and, in that instant, childhood bonds worked their magic – I asked him without even a second thought for $60 and he, without blinking gave it to me. I love that about childhood friendships. Of course I paid him back, and of course he didn’t worry about it.

 

The race got underway.  I played it a little safe after last year’s crash, coming around the last corner in second place with 400m to go – and facing a headwind sprint, finally ended up in 7^th.

 

Day two: A $5000 first prize, $25,000 total and a fast pace, and an even scarier pack. When I arrived, I coasted to the course only to stumble upon one of those David Lynch-like scenes:

 

A rider had just crashed in the Cat 4 race and was face down alone in the middle of the course, the pack long gone, limbs splayed out at awkward angles and blood was slowly puddling in front of his cracked helmet. As police arrived to cordon off the scene, the rider’s son suddenly appeared. As the boy rushed closer, time rippled away and his 18 years become 8 – and he began screaming, his voice cracking, begging with agonizing high pitched broken shrieks like a little boy, his age betrayed only by the hoarse throaty inhales – trying to push through the gauntlet. “DAD!!!!” – intercepted by paramedics, “Leave me alone!” “DAD! DAD! DAD!!!!” Most of the women standing around the scene were crying. I felt sick. What if Katelina… I stopped the thought.

 

I’m rattled now.

 

The race is nervous, packed and fast. I hang in the back for safety and then make my moves in the last lap to slot to the front. I could go all the way up and lead the sprint like yesterday – guarantee top 10 finish – but I slot in in about 10^th – same place that I crashed in last year – to try and have a shot at the win - it couldn’t happen twice – right?

 

In the final lap, the oddest crash I’ve ever witnessed happened. I was moving up the right side of the peleton on one of the mild curves in the long straightaways. Ahead the road narrowed again, so I slotted back into the pack, watching with interest another rider trying to use the same section of pavement to clear all the way into the front of the pack.

 

The subtle turn found his trajectory and that of the lead riders in conflict and predictably, he was forced into the grey metal skeleton of the barriers, with the always surprising loud staccato of handlebars tapping out a rhythm against the ribs, followed by the loud gunshot report of the final catch of a pedal or brake handle and the shrieking of metal on metal and carbon on tarmac as he fell.

 

All this is quite normal, sadly. But what was uncommon was what his feather-lite bike did next.

 

I watched him go down, I watched his shoulders bite the pavement, and then I watched in awe as his feet whipped over his head and launched his bike through the air with exactly the same whipping motion that professional soccer players use for “throw-ins” from the sidelines.

 

His bike knifed through the air sideways like a giant tubular boomerang, traveling at twice our speed, and then even more oddly, scissored onto the seatpost of one of the lead riders – 50 feet in front of the downed rider.

 

It stopped and stuck – perfectly sideways – like a gigantic mudguard over the rider’s rear wheel. The rider was still able to function perfectly and continued to pedal while carting this large pannier over his rear wheel. I’m not even sure he was immediately aware – but all of us started talking all at once with virtually the same words – “holy sh*# - I’ve never, ever, seen anything like that before!”

 

The rider eventually reached down and with some insistent tugging, dropped the errant frame from his own to the dismay of several riders behind who then plowed into it. By this time, the entire front half of the field was laughing though gasping for breath.

 

Meanwhile I moved up…

 

On the backstretch there was a crosswind and we were all riding in the right-hand gutter. There was a leadout man and it was safe because he wound it up to 40mph and stretched it out: 600m to go and I’m in 10^th place in a single file line – perfect. Only 200m until the next and final corner – no chance of it bunching up now – I’m safe…

 

Then it happens… the rider in 8^th suddenly tracks too close to the curb and has to hop up to keep his balance. No big deal – except that he also brakes, just a little, and then swings back down, bouncing back off the lip of the curb clipping the front wheel of the rider in 9^th in the process.

 

At 40mph the physics are virtually instantaneous – rider #9’s front wheel turns from the impact and launches his body like a rocket over the handle bars. My front wheel slams directly into his sideways frame and I repeat the launch – somehow abandoning my bike in the process.

 

When I finally skid to a stop, I’m over 100 feet from our interlocked bikes and in a state of absolute adrenaline overload from the preceding moments in between.

 

The in-between is the worst kind of torture. You might imagine that the meat of your limbs, grinding against the sandpaper of concrete at 40mph might be a nerve jangling grating experience, but its nothing like that at all.

 

Imagine pressing your hand to a smoking hot iron griddle left too long on the burner in the kitchen – that’s the initial feeling – that incredible overwhelming desire to pull it away from that searing, smoking pain. But… this is where it really gets worse – now imagine as you try to pull away, that someone clamps down on your hand, and presses your palm 2, and 3 times as hard into the pan, flattening the flesh, burning quickly into those softer recesses – those most sensitive areas.

 

THAT’s what it feels like when your naked flesh skids across yards of pavement at 40mph – first it was my shoulder held to the burning crucible, harder, harder, smoldering as I shriek internally, and then a sudden tumble, legs flailing, shoes clipping the pavement and then my hip – smoldering, flaming, and then my leg, my other shoulder, my knee, my elbow – and so on like the spasmodic turnings of a hellish human rotisserie.

 

When all is done, the concrete has burned holes through my skinsuit in a half dozen spots, and burned raw deep flaying wounds in both shoulders, both elbows, both knees, both shins, and worst of all, two red pancake sized rib-eyes into both sides of my gluteus maximus.

 

I retrieve my bike. I mount. I sit. I ride. “You gotta get back on the bike Coyle!” Walden’s voice plain as day in my head.

 

I laugh my way through the eternal cleaning, scrubbing, and bandaging process in the medical tent, marveling at my own progress in compartmentalizing the pain. But I know the worst is to come. Always before the road rash has had a “side” to it – front, left, right, or back. But this time – no place to hide, and no place to sit down. No place to sleep.

 

Walking back to the car I find myself suddenly shrinking with embarrassment – like a kid in junior high who has thrown up in the hallway. Pausing for the janitor to scrub it up, and now suddenly I can’t wait to not be seen… why?

 

Sitting down in the bed on the day after the crash takes over a full minute, and relaxing each abdominal contraction creates a new swollen compressing burning agony. Waking past midnight, I realize I am stuck to the sheets, wanting to turn, but I can’t without massive tearing agony.

 

I’m frozen. Claustrophobic.

 

 I stare at the ceiling and feel the fibers of the gauze slowly but inevitably cleave to my flesh in an itchy ratcheting progression – each requiring an agonizing bloody separation the next morning with the change of bandages. What, exactly, is it in the body that provides the yellow color to the gauze?

 

Back at work the next day, it requires 20 seconds to sit down on all the gauze between me and the seat, and nearly as long to stand up – feeling the seepage, seeing the small stains on my dress pants – back to the restrooms for 2, now 3 gauze pad changes. Why do I do this again?

 

A few days  later and I’m out on a post- superweek training ride. I have always loved training rides at this time of the season. Gone are the muscular aches and pains. Gone is the guilt for not putting in more hours, gone is the need to put in massive efforts. If in April the same level of effort and discomfort was 14 mph, in August it was 22mph – gained in the passing months was fitness, confidence, speed, the wind, and that August air – heat and light and that special warm blue…

 

Usually, when I’m feeling good on a training ride and don’t have a particular agenda, I’ll suddenly sprint – warm up the legs, get a good bit of speed going, feel the wind of 25, 30, 34mph stream past my face. This all usually takes about 10 seconds – from concept to fulfillment.

 

Today was different. Suddenly I felt no real spring when I started up out of the saddle. But instead of sitting down I continued on, ‘winding it up’ – something I usually hated to do. But I was loving it – this gradual inertia, faster, longer on the pedals, breathing – breathing – what a novel concept in a sprint – and ever faster.

 

The hum began and extended – what a pleasure to be able to “sprint” for more than a few seconds. I finally started to have a vague concept of what some athletes felt or meant when they said “I attacked and then kept going” – it was a feeling of extended power, confidence, tenacity.

 

30 seconds in, my speed was at 30mph. 45 seconds and I was at 31mph. One minute and I was at 32mph… This was an eternity at this speed and I was proud, confident. I used my reserves to push beyond my usual limits …. Looking down with expectation was deflated by the 33mph I saw there. Even out of shape I could usually hit 34 mph – lost… lost… lost…lost was the ‘magic.’

 

My sprint was gone.

 

I had become a “roadie.”

Walden Race Rule #3: Win it at the line!

Race Rule #3: Walden says: “Win it at the line!” 

Translation: in a sprint finish, master the timing required to come around or just get caught at the finish line.

The Science:

1) As the level of competition increases - from local to state to national to international, the differences in abilities between riders becomes more compressed, and winning by a huge margin in the sprint becomes less of an option. This is where strategy and skill replace the minute differences in ability. By mastering the ’surge to the line’ technique using the draft to its maximal effectiveness, a racer with less endurance or with less sprint horsepower can make up for those weaknesses, and maximize their strengths using this technique.

2) Gauging the distance to the line, the movements within the pack, and knowing which wheel to follow - this is the science of this rule.

The Art:

1)       Learn to read the race patterns - and know exactly where to be in the pack to avoid the to antithesis to “finish at the line” which are a) being hung out to dry - out front to early fighting the wind or b) getting caught in the back - no place to go, energy available with no outlet

2)       Intuitively understand how corners, wind, gradient (uphill/downhill), heat, and race speed combine with the twitching mass of riders in the pack to create final sprint conditions. In one race it might be a single file leadout string where being in 3rd place with a lap to go is the win