“Yo, whaddup Amish?!”

by Andy Elder, CRCA/NYVeloCity

@##=#<4,L>@##=# This was the buzz phrase for my CRCA/NYVeloCity teammate Paul Goldman and me this Friday and Saturday as we headed towards the Union Grove Road Race in East Earl, PA in the heart of Amish country. See, we had comic-book images in our heads of lining up with a Cat 5 field filled with Amish and Mennonite racers (There’s some kid named Floyd who’s something of a local celeb round those parts). We imagined rolling up and finding a couple dozen of these conservatively dressed men on tricked-out racing bikes and us looking and feeling rather out of place and foreign, trying our wits at small talk with these quiet and serious folk, spouting lines similar to this one every so often to see if they were “down” or not with us obvious big-city lads. We joked of getting our butts kicked “Amish style” by the locals, their having a distinct lack of outside stimuli as well as endless and glorious country roads on which to train. I mean really—when was the last time you saw an Amish dude with a Blackberry? I rest my case.

We headed to Pennsylvania Friday night, arriving at the Morgantown, PA Holiday Inn (which had, of note, a very 70s-era in-lobby pool!) at nigh on 10:45 PM. After a precautionary bedbug check behind the headboards of our queen-sized beds (You’ve begun scratching yourself, haven’t you?), we unpacked and readied our gear for the morning; once this was accomplished and we set the alarm clock, Paul’s phone, and called the lobby for a 6:30 wake-up call, it was lights out.

@##=#<1,L>@##=# Woke up on time (all three wake-up modes worked satisfactorily) and readied our bottles, nibbled CLIF bars, kitted up, and headed out. Mistake #1 coming up: There were apparently two Holiday Inns within a couple of blocks of one another but on different streets, and the driving directions Paul printed out were to the other one unbeknownst to him (not his fault and an easy “error” to make). As well, the hotel-to-race-course directions were from somewhere other than our hotel. We made the wrong 50/50 guess and ended up going a mile or so in the wrong direction, then realized our folly and spun back around. From here, it was fairly smooth sailing ’til we got near the race course.

As we approached the course, we determined that a couple of the roads (the race was entirely on farm roads, some one-way and just wide enough—and without shoulders to collect debris, stones, etc.—for a typical horse-and-buggy combo) had been closed for the race. Our directions to the registration area were frustratingly now void. We soon recognized that a few other bike-topped cars were just as lost as we were. Someone asked a rider who was warming up on the course the whereabouts of registration, and we all followed, eventually finding our way; not, however, before wasting ten additional minutes of precious warm-up and course-reconnaissance time. Ridiculous, right?

@##=#<2,L>@##=# We parked, registered (very easy and efficient), numbered up, and went for a warm-up. At this point, we hadn’t much time left (not good at all) and decided to do a quick ten-minute halfway-around of the course. We rode for a bit, tested our legs, and then turned around. As we rolled down a twisty descent on the way back to the start/finish: BANG!! Paul, riding behind me, heard the explosion and saw the offending stone sail away from my rear wheel. It appeared as if someone had knifed my tire. Balls. No repairing that one. I was forced to slowly and carefully ride the rear flat back (about 1.5 miles) to the car and switch it out with my spare rear wheel (Good planning, yes?). I suggested he ride ahead so as not to miss the start and told him that I’d be there as ASAP as possible.

I made it to the line by the skin of my teeth, dashing in my cleats cyclocross style through the muddy, reedy parking lot and slid down the rocky path to hit the Cat 5 group with barely 45 seconds to spare. Big problem—and Mistake #2: we were within the final six or eight riders in a 50-rider field. Bad, bad, bad. With the strong and even sweetish smell of cow manure in the air, the whistle was blown, the pack sprinted off and split up, and we hung on for dear life, giving it everything we had.

@##=#<3,L>@##=# As mentioned, most of the roads on the course were slender, a mere ten feet across. Add to this the foot of loose gravel on either side—and the occasional horse nuggets in the middle of the road—and you probably get the picture: it was two- or three-across racing, and full gas from the gun. No way to safely move up on roads this narrow, twisty, and wide-open to the wind (it’s farmland, after all). We rode hard and, dare I say, valiantly, but were eventually dropped off the back—not the first ones and certainly not the last to suffer this fate.

The course itself was challenging, technical, and beautiful with relentless ups and downs. While not long, most of the ascents were small-ring hills even at race pace, and not unlike shorter versions of some of the steepish Belgian rises in Liege-Bastogne-Liege. Lots of climbing and descending on twisty lanes as well. Small groups of Mennonite families, all in traditional dress, sat by the roadside and viewed the race as we barreled past. While they didn’t cheer, they did offer waves and smiles when greeted with the same by racers; a charming sight, to be sure.

We completed the race (18 miles in total), riding hard the whole way, passing riders here and there, and enjoyed the course, feeling pleased that we’d at least escaped Central Park or 9W on a perfect Saturday morning and knowing that we did all we could’ve to prepare for this event.

Would we do it all again next year? You bet.