Once Howard, Francis, and I set the bikes on the trainers to warm up for the 40K TT in Carlisle, the skies opened up. The green cloud on the Weather Channel’s radar during our 5:45 a.m. check had arrived. Thunder rumbled as rain poured. Water stood in puddles the school’s parking lot in minutes. It was grim. Francis and I tried to stay dry by sliding our trainers under the back door of the van, but water dripping off the door hit the center of my back and funneled straight to my chamois. Nothing I love more than wet chamois in the morning. Feels like . . . well, not victory.
Howard talked me into this TT silliness, and Francis decided to come along at the last minute to celebrate his 42 birthday. When I talked to Howard about the TT, he said something about the course being “flat, at least for around here.” He had been clocking pretty fast times, so I was game. I trained for the event by thinking about it. I also strapped on the aero bars and tweaked my bike a bit, basically moving the saddle forward 12mm and up 5mm. I hate moving my saddle, so I must have been taking this event seriously. I borrowed Francis’s Spinergy wheel and wore my close-out red and black Voler skinsuit. I thought the skinsuit made me look sexy and fast. My wife said it made me look “red.” The day of the race, that skinsuit made me look wet.
Francis was scheduled to go off a minute before me, Howard thirty seconds after. After a 20 minute trainer soak, I followed Howard to the start line. The start involved a short climb, which I rode conservatively, not wanting to dig myself into a hole with an hour left to race. I’d be in the hole soon enough. My goal for the day was to settle into my race pace and ride consecutively faster 20 minute sections. Dodging puddles, I settled onto the aero bars, told myself to relax, and focused on my breathing. I was hurting within minutes, but relatively comfortable on the aero bars.
I passed the 10K mark in about 16 minutes. Damn, I thought, I’m moving pretty well. But the “flat” course kept climbing slightly all the way to the turnaround. I focused on my form and pushed as hard as I could without blowing up. The course rolled through farmland and old houses, and occasionally I saw Amish buggies passing in the opposite direction. What a contrast between aero-helmeted, shaved-legged freaks riding tricked out Cervelos with disc wheels and the clop, clop, clop of horses pulling buggies. Of course, I was too gassed to think that thought during the actual ride.
I rolled through the turnaround at around 33 minutes. As I accelerated back up to speed, I heard puffing and gasping coming from across the road. It was Howard. I thought, “He’s fucked.” I figured he had gone too hard and was going to fall apart any second. Boy, was I wrong.
A few minutes later, Howard passed me, gasping and huffing. I mumbled something like, “Right on, Howard,” or “Go Howard,” or “You asshole, why did I let you talk me into this silliness?” I felt better later when he told me that the spray from my tires was providing a refreshing mid-ride treat for him. I told him it was my new energy drink: Horseshot™. I’m in negotiations with The Shack…
Howard slowly pulled away, thanks no doubt to my energy drink hitting his bloodstream, and I was left alone with my thoughts. They were pathetic. “OK, ten more minutes, pick it up, pick it up, PICK IT UP!” . . . “Ok, seven minutes, give it all you’ve got!” . . . “Come on, legs, come on!” . . . “Beer!” Needless to say, the final 10 minutes were rough. I focused on maintaining my form—it’s always better to look good than to go fast, right?—and pushed myself deep into the red zone. I crossed the finish line at around 40 mph and slumped across the bars, wondering if I would be able to climb the hill to the van. At that moment, I had my doubts.
Back at the van, Francis offered some kind of gummi something or other. I refused, reaching instead for water and then a Pabst. I handed one to Francis with a “happy birthday.” Howard refused a Pabst. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s mature or just doesn’t like Pabst at 10:30 a.m. on a Sunday. We were the only two drinking Pabst, which just goes to show you that TT’s are serious business.
Our times: Francis turned 40K in 61:38 at an average speed of 24.1. Howard turned 40K in 62:24 at an average speed of 23.9. I turned 40K in 63:03 at an average speed of 23.6. I’m looking forward to next year. Maybe I’ll train some. Or maybe I should take Francis’s approach and just sorta show up.
Howard summed it up best: “We suck! The over-hour club consisted of a white-haired couple dressed in purple, a guy with one leg, and us.”
