Suffering. It’s waking up at 5am. It’s deciding to put your kit on as the rain starts. It’s not putting your bike back in the car after 20mph winds and rain in warmup. It’s lining up behind the moto ref and neutral starts that aren’t all that neutral.
“Why is it so hard?” The same thought over and over as we rolled down Patterson Pass toward the starting line at the top of the bump. A 6% grade and strong head wind oppressed us. The rain wasn’t heavy yet, but the road was saturated and water sprayed from tires in the peloton. Gritty, slightly salty with a motor oil finish. Blacktop cabernet. I think the rain started again. The wind blew, hard. Suffering.
“We are going to have to bridge that gap” a voice from behind me called. I had zoned out pondering the apparent difficulty of the race and extreme heaviness of my legs in the first few minutes. We hadn’t slowed down or crossed the line to start yet, so why was a gap opening? I didn’t see the moto ref. It was going to be that kind of race.
We came to The Bump for the first time, climbing its short, 46% face haphazardly, and painfully. Suffering. The crest came and went, and with it the finish line. The race began. Another short climb and we were flying at 35mph down the rain slicked descent. During the pre-race meeting we had been warned about mud and gravel running down from a driveway, I thought about it, briefly, as we hurtled past at speed. “The race wont be won on the descent, but it could be lost there” more pre-race advice echoed in my mind. The group pushed the pace further.
Good sense prevailed in the corners, and soon we were approaching the last two of the first lap. A small break formed and lurched ahead, away. The peloton did not chase.
Withering. That was our kind of head wind. We came to Patterson Pass and its deceptively mild, yet grinding grade again. The miserable conditions didn’t crush our desire to pull the break back. It produced in us instead, a desire to crush. Under impossible pressures, a pace line was forged.
Suffering. It’s guys who have never ridden in a rotating pace line, riding in your rotating pace line. A little extra time to think (off the front) brought problem racers in line. We coalesced, and surged forward into the storm ahead.
The break was never big enough to survive the chase. The poor conditions had reduced us to rabid animals, foaming and frothing at the mouth. Jaws snapping greedily and lurching forward for any prey we could reach for another lap. The group pounced on and devoured the remnants as they fell off the back of the break until we were finally all together on the 3rd and final lap.
Weak, weary and broken, riders peeled off one by one until we were just 8. The suffering was immense. We kept the pace line going as long as we could and the skies began to clear. Fewer riders took pulls.
Patterson Pass again, the last time. No rests were taken, the pace surged and retreated. Ebbing and flowing to and from the shores of impossibility.
Suddenly, an attack from the front. A gap opened, and we were only 2.
Suffering. It’s forgetting where you are on the course.
Suffering. It’s failing to respond to the decisive move in the race.
Suffering. It’s watching the group, just out of reach and turning to see the finish line approaching.
Suffering. It’s head wind. It’s nothing left in the tank.
I finished my pull for our hopeless pair and fell in to draft. Now I too was weary and defeated. I felt at that moment it was over and began to resign myself. He looked like he had something left, he would take the final climb.
The Bump came, last chance. He went. I went, but in a smaller gear. We reached the steepest grade, the too small gear straining my legs, but moving me ever so slightly closer to him. I saw it. It was possible. I ripped and tore at the cranks until he was behind me, and I was over the finish line in front of him.
7th.
Helen Kim
This is well written report. Great description Jacob! Well written to help me visualize the actual event.