7 May 2006

Super Saturday’s Hills of Somerset is a fast, 85-mile jaunt that circumnavigates Somerset County, beginning in Somerville, twisting through every major town in the county, and finishing back in Somerville. Although I had a good training week on the bike, I was very, very, very apprehensive – the area’s top pros were coming out, looking to hammer before Memorial Day’s Tour of Somerville.

I arrived over an hour early, then had to stand in the registration line, under an oddly baking sun, for over half-an-hour. Excuse me, but isn’t that why ONLINE REGISTRATION was invented? Everyone around me was getting angrier and angrier by the minute. One guy cut in line, “arseholes” went flying, and I thought there was gonna be blood before even one pedal was turned in anger! Thankfully, we peaceful cyclists (HAH!) were able to keep the peace. In my own little world, I wasn’t flustered – still concentrating coldly on the hell that awaited up the road. Just standing there in line, my forehead was already dripping, morning temps tickling the 80s…

At 9:00 we boomed off, a caravan of motorcycles zooming around us, leading, accelerating to our lefts and rights, parading us out of town. The 100+ peloton was going 30 instantly, around turns, through intersections, bouncing over the road seams and cracks, bustling down the pavement with awesome fluidity. The roads were entirely shut down, so we had from curb to curb to play with, much better than the confined “yellow line” rule. As a result, the peloton didn’t breathe with the congested stress it usually possesses…

I was very surprised at the speeds. Every time I looked down at my PowerTap, it was 30+. We were absolutely flying over rollers, zooming into downhills, cruising through long pastures and careening roads. We ripped through traffic intersections, blockaded police cars and whistling officers holding back traffic. We came and were gone, the intersections gone in a blip. I was genuinely fearing the speeds. But I felt better knowing Westwood had strong riders: Troy, Fast Eddy, Paolo, Eric, David. We were all headed down the same path…

I was nervous, stupid nervous. I followed wheels, always staying near the front. In April, my teammate Mike Gisler won the monument Battenkill-Roubaix with a stellar performance, out-muscling a stacked field on the final climb. Near the beginning of the race, he had put in a vicious attack, forcing everyone to chase (and write his number down on their stems!!!). I thought Mike was clinically insane, even told him when we regrouped, but he told me he wanted to test the waters, rev the engine, see where the legs were. He said he needed to…

With that in mind, after two dudes scuttled up the road, I accelerated up a roller and sped after them. When using racing wheels instead of the PowerTap wheel, Heart Rate is placed in the Watts position. Halfway across the gap, speeding along at 34 mph, I looked down at my computer – 194 HR. Holy hell! I NEVER hit 194 like that in training. I eased off, a guy on my wheel. He pulled through, I grabbed his wheel, pedaling hard. But, strangely, I recovered instantly, my HR plummeting back down to the 160s – I knew immediately that I was on a good day…

The peloton regrouped, but the insane speeds remained. With the strong sun glinting harshly across the unbroken sky, we sped through various downtown arenas, out through Maple-shaded county roads, racing alongside dumping creeks and forever woods. It was 30, 30, 30, and it was an utterly surreal feeling getting sucked along for the ride. Who needs a car when you have a peloton of 100+?! J

Halfway through the race, I could see riders beginning to fatigue. We hit the first big climb of the day. I had asked a rider earlier if I needed a 25-gear, because I had a 23 in the rear. He scoffed at my remark, saying he had a 21. With that, I thought the climbs were not going to be too steep…

Oops. We slammed into uphill pavement. Not easy terrain. I was near the front, very alert, still incredibly nervous. I was very concerned with how my body would react. Riders spread across the road as drafting took second stage to power output. Heaving bodies began to creep past me. I tried to stay entirely seated, spinning a high cadence. My HR was 185. But, strangely, I felt fine.

We hit the steeper pitches, terrain I hate. Although I’m rail skinny, I’m still one of the peloton’s heavier riders. The climb was steeper than I anticipated. But as I was forced to mash up the higher grade, I began to pass riders. Usually it’s the exact opposite – the steep stuff kills me. But now, I wasn’t going any harder, just maintaining the same intensity. I began to think, Oh boy oh boy oh boy. I’m finally on a good day in a big race. Don’t do anything STUPID.

Eric rode strong in front of me – he looked very fresh. We crested the climb. I was near the front, turned around, saw riders spread down the road. I knew immediately that the peloton had lost a lot of riders on that first test of the day. One second there’s 100, the next there’s half. I dunno the exact numbers, but that ascent certainly splintered the group in a violent four minutes of lactate threshold climbing.

Fast descending followed, motorcycles constantly roaring around us, then more tempo on the flats. Lunch time, guys munching bars, switching their empty bottles. Now, when guys shot up the road, the peloton was slower to react – just a tad more sluggish, hesitant almost. A slew of riders, 5 or 6 of them, slipped up ahead, digging in, opening a nice gap.

I was almost in Panic Mode. I wanted to attack. Badly. I feared the mileage and the company I was with. I looked to my left. Mark Walters of the Navigators, 2002 USPRO Champ! To the right, Davide Frattini of Colavita, winner of the Baby Giro d’Italia. I knew if guys like that, and others, stepped on the gas, I’d be sucking on their fumes, a long ride home. I wanted to get out. I like long, hard, steady efforts, minimal accelerations. If I was in a breakaway, I’d get the type of riding I’m good at. In the peloton, with attacks and counterattacks and more attacks, I knew I could get spit out the back even if I was feeling good…

On a twisty section, two riders hopped up, jammed in the drops, cutting across the road. I could see they had fearsome momentum and were snapping open a gap… I was near the front, cut closely around a few riders, and accelerated hard. I closed in on them. Once I caught the wheel, I turned around. I was pleasantly surprised to see we had a gap, big enough worth risking. I put my head down and went into time-trial mode. The Trek rider stayed on my wheel and we were off, in a mad-dash pursuit of the breakaway.

I’m not gonna lie: the speeds were killing me. I turned around. The Trek guy, I could see, did not want to pull. Behind, I could see riders scrambling off the front of the peloton. As Gisler likes to say, “You gotta be there when the sh%t goes down.” Well, according to my viewpoint, the shi%t was going down, and thankfully I was in front of it!!!

I pulled and pulled, flicking the Trek head through to no avail, the breakaway looming ahead. We were closing, but I was going into Death Mode, not going any faster, just trying to turn the pedals smoothly. I turned around, and I saw a blue/yellow Westwood jersey leading the charge from behind, five or six riders dangling on his wheel. Immediately, I swung off, forcing Trek to pull through. He passed me and I latched onto his wheel.

I turned around again, and the rider approaching was Troy Kimball.

It didn’t take long. Troy roared up to us like a bullet, five guys in tow. It was very impressive. The seven of us began to swap pulls. I was hurting from the effort but still felt good, able to pull through without much of a struggle. We were way off the front of the peloton and closing on the break. If we could hook up, that would make 10-12 riders willing to work together to the line, not a good recipe for the race. Afterwards, a rider in the peloton told me it was a very dangerous break, a lot of different teams represented in there, leaving it down to others to chase from behind.

I was very excited. I didn’t know the exact mileage remaining, but we were going fast and I was strong. We had two Westwood riders in a breakaway in the Hills of Somerset! Holy hell. Ken, don’t do anything stupid.

Well, I did, but it wasn’t my fault! As we bombed down a descent, we came to a fork in the road. Left, off the road, up a hill. Right, continue ahead. A lead motorcycle wasn’t with us (there were only 50 of them!!!). We bombed straight down the road, neglecting the left turn.

The marshal in the orange vest instantly sprang up, screaming, “LEFT, LEFT, LEFT!”

What followed, instantaneously, was a bunch of excruciatingly loud profanity, skidding tires, pounding of the handlebars, open mouths. Me, I didn’t say a word. But I was crushed. We had fucked up. In the worst way. At the bottom of a climb. Mentally, I was flattened. In that exact nanosecond, seeing that marshal spring forward again in my thoughts, I knew my race was over.

I was the first to turn around, go back up the road, make the U-turn onto the climb. But I was empty. My heart was racing. I could not recover. As I ascended, I turned around, still no one behind me. I thought, Holy Hellbags, Batman, we made a wrong turn in the Hills of Somerset! How in the fuck does this happen?!

To make life worse, the climb was steep, not to my liking. I couldn’t churn my high cadence, yearning for a smaller gear I didn’t have. I heard the peloton roar up from behind, in hindsight a very frightening sound. I didn’t turn around. Not once. One rider, two, three, ten, twenty, all flinging by with great momentum. Zing, zam, zoom.

Eddie and Paolo, then Eric, burned past with the field. I accelerated, a little, a tiny bit, riders blipping by on both sides. I remained seated, grinding at 60 cadence, not a happy camper. I gripped my handlebars, tight, tighter, squeezing the aluminum, squeezing. My body was already crushed, and I was trying to crush something else.

As I pedaled grim-faced, Troy Kimball passed me.

“Well, that sucked,” I said.

“Yeah,” Troy said, not looking at me.

At that moment, I knew he wasn’t beaten like me. He sped up and kept pace with the back of the peloton. Getting back on like that was a fierce, fierce effort, more mental than anything. I guess now I can empathize with Lance Armstrong catching Ulrich on Luz-Ardiden. Except he’s Freak Lance and I’m Mortal Westwoodian.

Frattini and Walters sprint it out.

Troy was out of the saddle, back down, out of the saddle again. I watched him struggle, use every ounce of energy to power his bike up that damn climb, to catch the back of the peloton, to squirt over the top with them. And he did it, that fucker. For the second time in one day, I was quite impressed.

As I crested with 15 or so guys, a bystander alongside the curb said, “Hurry! You’re almost there. Catch them! Faster!” In utter Death Mode, I thought, You ain’t got no idea, palooka. But thanks, pal…

So, you go from being in the lead break to being spit out the back of the race. Good job, Kenny. That’s racing for you. I knew it could happen – just not like that! I was internally very, very angry. Our 15-man group was gapped, gone. Broom wagon material.

Only two of us were willing to work and ride hard. Everyone else was either dead or not interested. The skies, at some point, were black (perfect timing!) and began to piss warm rain all over us. Me and the Air Force guy pulled and pulled, pulling forever, up and over rollers and through wonderfully scenic county terrain.

An ambulance came hurtling by, sirens screaming. I was dropped, but I was still upright. It could be worse. Much.

Even though my race was over, I was actually having fun, soaking up the colder weather, riding hard tempo and not caring if guys were gonna suck my wheel to the promised land. However, when I looked around, it was just eight of us.

We were still going fast, riding to exhaustion, when one of the dreaded white Econoline vans pulled us over, followed by an ugly dump truck with uneven faded headlamps. Oh boy. Bad, bad feeling in the gut.

A big lady got out of the van and told us to get in. Before I could ask the group what they wanted to do, the riders were already dismounted, filing soundlessly into the van. Inside that dreaded white van sat other pale, frowned faces, blinking at me through the glass, each glare filled with a different picture of failure.

For more than one reason, I did not want to get in that van.

Then a big guy from the dump truck heaved each bicycle into the back. Clatter. Clatter. There were a million of them back there, thousands of dollars of high-end bicycle weaponry piled crudely together. CLATTER.

What, are they insane? The big woman rested her clipboard on my handlebars. “You’re more than three minutes back. You have to take the van back.”

I looked at her, at the dump truck. Christ.

“According to USA Cycling…” Her voiced trailed off. She was spitting some rule, some technicality at me.

I stood there, in the rain, looking at her, at the van, at the dump truck. “No, I’m not getting in that thing.”

“You have to get in the-”

“NO.”

It was funny. As I stood there, filled with vile disappointment and anger, I was reminded of a wonderful scene from As Good As It Gets. Jack Nicholson takes Helen Hunt out to this nice restaurant. When they arrive, the doorman asks Jack to put on a house jacket and tie. Jack looks at him, then at the suit and tie, with utter disgust. He says, quite honorably, “No.” The doorman insists. “Listen, I’m also not going to let you inject me with THE PLAGUE.” He was thickly, purely detesting the situation he was thrusted into. Although quite offensive, it was a funny, effective scene.

I projected the same sincerity. She knew I was not getting into that van. So with that, with no arguing, the van and the dump truck bussed off. I stood there in the rain. The Air Force dude was still there, saying his team van was coming to get him.

I wanted to ride. I still felt good. It’s one thing to get dropped. It’s another to not finish. So I rode. As I came to the intersections, they were now open. Now I understood: it was a closed enclosure. When the “broom wagons” passed, the police opened traffic again. In short, the course was no longer clear, and I had no frickin’ clue where I was going, stranded in Stupid Somerset hill country. Stupid Ken. Still, I knew I did the right thing. I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than get into that goddamn dreaded white van.

It took awhile, but I finally found my way back to Somerville. Other races and riders were staging, and no one looked at me. I was covered in dirty rain and road grime, and I smiled, knowing I came from Hell to arrive in Somerville alone. I had my own story, and I liked that.

I found my car, my teammates in the parking lot. Paolo finished the best. Paolo Zenoni is a very, very strong rider – I’ve never seen him crack, and it should be a great summer. Even though we were shut out of the top-20, we still rode hard with the best and had fun. It turns out Troy was able to stay on, then get away in a 7-man group, only to crash. He’s a great bike-handler, so something ugly must’ve happened. He was strong, very strong. On that climb, I had nothing, and it must’ve taken an enormous mental and physical effort to grit the teeth and make it over with the dwindling peloton.

I was happy with the day. Last week, I was shelled at North Stonington, spit violently out the back on the second lap and forced to ride the rest of the race with one other guy, praying and riding our hearts out for two-plus hours in hopes of not getting lapped. We survived, but this week I wanted to take a big step: to make a move in the race and ride sensibly.

Although it’s entirely unacceptable to allow a big break make the wrong turn in the latter half of an important event, what the hell are you going to do? Could we have stayed away? Would I have blown up? Could Westwood had gotten two fine results? I’ll never know. But I do know there will be other races. There will be other breakaways.

The race had finished in just over 3 hours. 85 miles in just over 3 hours. Next time you wanna go to the shore, just hitch a ride with the peloton! Saves gas!

But not frustration. But what’s life without a little conflict?

KL