June 13, 2018 § 9 Comments
At the world famous Telo training race every Tuesday night, there is huge variety with the same outcome. The variety lies in the the various breakaways that get established, the antics of the riders careening through the turns as they avoid steel plates, loose gravel, orange warning cones, oncoming traffic, and the wobbly person ahead of them, all things that seem like they might lead to a different outcome but almost never do.
The outcome is like this: Frexit, EA Sports, Inc., or Hair win the sprint.
Every blue moon or so it turns out otherwise, like last week when Medium Banana ganged up with Team Lizard Collectors and stuck it to The Man, but the exception proves the rule: You can’t sprint, you ain’t hardly ever gonna win.
That’s what happened this week, too. EA Sports, Inc. banged open the door about three or four laps in, waltzed away with Medium Banana, was joined by Surfer and Ivan the Terrible, put 40 seconds on the field, cat-and-moused towards the end, then led it out and won by a gazillion bike lengths.
Meanwhile back at the ranch, Hair, who was still recovering from bubonic plague, kicked it hard from the front out of the last turn and booted Sockman out the back with the ease of a FedEx dude dumping a clunky box off at the curb. He finished so far ahead he looked like Secretariat at the Belmont Stakes.
After the race one of guys who got pureed asked Hair, who should know, “How do you sprint?”
Hair shrugged. “It’s pretty simple,” he said. “Pick good parents.”
Reading this blog is like having your own personal bike racing coach, you know, the dude who follows the maxim “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.” Please consider subscribing … Click here and select the “subscribe” link in the upper right-hand corner. Thank you!
July 29, 2017 § 6 Comments
It was either Huey Lewis and the News pounding out a gnarly backbeat or it was my heart; if the former, the heart of rock and roll was still in fact beating as I labored up the awful Piuma climb, hanging by a meat thread onto the wheel of someone much faster, better looking, and more nicely clad than I. If the latter, my ticker wasn’t going to keep beating much longer. A heart has a finite number of beats and a finite number of beats per minute. Both appeared close to being reached.
When I got gapped out, I mean when I was in the wrong gear, I mean when it was only a club race, I mean when I’d already achieved my Strava result on a segment back there, I mean when my power meter said to ease off, I slid out the back and plodded for a while. Tony Manzella, Chad Moston, Matt Wikstrom, and Drew Kogon vanished in the twinkling of my bloodshot eye.
Then Jaycee Carey came by and dropped me, followed by Roberto Hegeler. I finished faster than some people, slower than others. Atop the climb there were tents from Helen’s Cycles and Velo Club LaGrange, sponsors of the Piuma Hillclimb and the LaGrange Cup. Finishers staggered onto a stage and were strobe-blinded by a camera rig set up by Joe Pugliese.
Yes, that Joe Pugliese.
It’s not often that a bad beating on a long hill adds up to wonderfulness, but this third informal bike race was part of the LaGrange Cup, a three-race series that club members are eligible to race. You can do one, two, or all three events. You don’t need a USAC license or any race experience at all.
Marco Fantone, the eminence gris who takes care of the gris with copious doses of Grecian Forumula, is the mastermind behind this annual club event. It’s a phenomenal amount of work, not only because all 400 members send him multiple emails like “What was the start time again?” and “Do I have to pay?” and “What gearing do you suggest?” and most of all “Do I need a track bike to ride on the track?”
That last one seems obvious, but isn’t. The answer is “no.” The LG Cup’s first event is a 500-meter sprunt on the Encino Velodrome and you can do it on your road bike. The second event is a 20k time trail on PCH. The third is the epic, 3-mile Piuma hill climb, and making reality stranger than the ultimate bike racing stereotype, in 2017 the prize for each event is actually a pair of socks.
But this isn’t a paeon to the LaGrange Cup or to Marco’s email answering prowess.
It’s a model for amazing bike racing in an era when USAC-sanctioned events are dropping faster than a Baby Boomer at a rave. In 2002, LaGrange club member Bryan McMahon put on the event as a way to give everyone in the club a chance to race, whether or not they held a USAC license. The result has been a massive success. The LG Cup is the signal event of the year and is followed by an amazing picnic blowout after the Piuma hill climb.
Every club, whether purely recreational or genuinely fake profamateur, should put on an event like this. It gets everyone excited. It promotes racing. It allows cross pollination between wannabe-but-too-scared racers with completely fake profamateur dreamers. It brings out extraordinary competition. Who thought anyone would try to kill him/herself for a pair of socks? It sharpens the club’s mission and makes for a damned good time.
And whether it’s rock and roll or not, it keeps the heart beating.
For $2.99 per month you can subscribe to this blog and get none of the news that’s fit to print but all the news that’s fun to read. Click here and select the “subscribe” link in the upper right-hand corner. Thank you!
December 16, 2014 § 15 Comments
I carefully went over my race plan with Derek on Saturday night. “Look, Wanky,” he said. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“That’s a tall order. Sears Tower tall.”
“I know. But you can do it. Here’s the deal,” he said. I was so excited because I love talking pre-race strategy. Not that I ever implement it, but it’s fun. “You have to wait ’til halfway. Don’t smash yourself at the beginning.”
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Yeah. Halfway through everyone will sit up.”
“Yeah. And they’ll be tired.”
“Yeah. Because of all the knuckleheads who’ve been killing themselves from the beginning.”
“Yeah. But not you. You’ve waited until … how long are you gonna wait?”
“Halfway!” I shouted.
“Exactly! And because it’s halfway and all the knuckleheads have been attacking from the gun, you’re gonna be fresh.”
“Yeah. And that’s when you’re gonna attack. One time. And make it stick.”
Derek shrugged. “Cross that bridge when you come to it.”
On the morning of the race my teammates were really happy to have me there. They were as excited as I was. “Hi, Eric!” I said. Eric is our team leader and super fast guy. He and I are pals. I said hello a few more times and he turned around.
“Oh, it’s you.”
“Yep. Here to work for the team!”
Eric came over to me. “Look, Wanky. Do two things.” He looked kind of upset.
“Yeah. One — stay out of my way.”
“Two — don’t chase me down. Got that?”
“Yep! It’s gonna be a fun race, huh?” I don’t think he heard me because he had already turned away. Then I saw my other best friend, Josh. “Hey, Josh!” I said. He didn’t answer for a few minutes but I kept calling his name and since he was standing next to me he finally heard me.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Well, ol’ pal, it’s gonna be a fun race today, huh?” I said.
“Look, Wanky, I don’t have time to fuck with your bullshit today. If you chase me down again in another race I’m going to kick your ass with a tire iron.”
“Did I chase you down last time?”
“No. You chase me down every time. And we’re all sick of it.”
“If someone would just tell me what to do.”
“We yell at you until we’re hoarse and you still chase us down. So cut the crap.”
“Okay, pal,” I said. “I’ve got a special plan for today anyway.” The rest of the team kind of glowered, but it was a happy, friendly sort of glower.
Soon the race started. Just like Derek said, the idiots all attacked from the gun, but not me. I did exactly what he said and waited until I was halfway through the first lap. Then I attacked. However, no one had sat up and no one looked very tired. In fact, they all looked quite fresh because they were all on my wheel. So I moved over and waited for another lap. “Maybe he meant halfway through the second lap,” I thought, and so I attacked again, but no luck. “Well it must have been halfway through some lap,” I told myself, so each time I got halfway through a lap I attacked I but never got anywhere except really tired.
Finally, about halfway through the race, everyone sat up. I was pretty beat from all the attacking, but I attacked again and they let me go. After a while out there I got even more tired. The wind was blowing and my bike wasn’t going very fast and I had all kinds of breakfast stuff gurgling up into my mouth. Yuck. Then some guy bridged up to me and I remembered the winning advice given to me by Daniel Holloway, 3-time elite national champion, which was this: “Be the second strongest guy in the break.”
That was gonna be easy since there were only two of us, except the guy I was with must have heard the same advice, as he kept trying to be second to me, and me second to him, until before long we were going about twelve miles an hour and another guy came up to us, a teammate, and then three more guys, including Josh. I was so happy to see Josh because he is a hammer. “Hey, pal!” I said happily.
“Don’t you dare chase me down. Or Ino, either,” he said, pointing to the other teammate.
“Oh, I won’t!” I promised.
“And remember, the fastest guy in the race is Eric and he’s back there, and none of us three can sprint so we’re not going to win out of this break, so let the other wankers do all the work so that either Eric can bridge and win or one of us can attack at the end when the others are all tired. Whatever you do, don’t fuggin’ work hard.”
I tried to remember all of what he said but it was too darned complicated and plus being in a break is the most exciting thing ever so I just went to the front and hammered as hard as I could. There was a young kid who had also bridged who never took a pull and sat on the whole time, but I didn’t pay any attention to him. Lazy kid. He was probably thinking about his math homework.
Josh kept yelling at me something about sitting in or sitting down or sitting duck but I was too tired to understand what he said. Towards the end someone attacked hard and opened a big gap; it looked like the winning move but thankfully I shut it down with a superhuman effort, then I realized it was my teammate Ino, darn it.
Then the lazy kid with the math homework who’d done nothing the whole break leaped away with one and a half laps to go. For a little punk he went fast. Somehow I caught him and then everyone slowed down. Next thing I knew our ringer Eric had bridged with 3/4 of a lap to go. He looked fast and primed for victory.
Then things got confusing. Some guy who looked pretty sprintworthy jumped hard right before the last turn. I got on his wheel and then some other things happened, I’m not sure what, but afterwards I heard some people saying that perhaps I had exploded in the middle of the sprunt and blocked all my teammates so that the lazy kid actually won. Not sure that’s true, by the way, but after the race none of my teammates would talk to me.
I think they were just tired.
For $2.99 per month you can subscribe to this blog and help me find a new team. Click here and select the “subscribe” link in the upper right-hand corner. Thank you!
November 20, 2014 § 7 Comments
Our team leader sent us all a link to an article about how to improve our crit racing. Here’s the link.
Now, our team leader knows what he’s talking about because he’s won a ton of big crits, so it makes sense that he would send us advice about how we can win, too. Unfortunately, his optimism is clouded by the massive cumulonimbus of reality. The only people who are ever going to win crits are the ones who already win crits. Instead, I wish he would have sent us an article about crit strategies for people who are hopeless and who have zero chance of ever crossing the line first.
I googled “tips for hopeless crit racing wankers” and got no hits except for a profile on some dude named Chris Lotts. So I thought I would type up some hopeless wanker crit racing tips and share them with you, because let’s face it, you ain’t ever gonna fuggin’ win a crit. Ever.
- Don’t fuggin’ crash. This is the number one rule for crit racing. If you’re a winner, you will sometimes fall off your bicycle because you have to take risks, bang bars, check timber, and see who’s testosterone is the stinkiest. Everyone else doesn’t have a fuggin’ chance, especially you, so don’t go home with your nuts covered in road rash. When you have to choose between taking the aggressive line or falling back 30 places, you sure as fugg better cower, brake, and give way. “How come your balls are all skinned up?” is not the question you want to have to answer when you get home.
- Don’t fuggin’ sprint. Are you in the top five coming through the last turn? Of course not! You’re a fat fuggin’ wanker who’s lucky to be in 65th place with his epidermis intact. Sit the fugg up and coast. Let the other knuckleheads battle it out for 64th place, ’cause one of them is going down. On his face. And his name is Prez.
- Don’t fuggin’ attack. You know who attacks? Winners, that’s who. Chubby, stub-legged wankers on $10k bikes are not going off the front for more than 10 yards, and if they do it’s on Lap 3. Go to the fuggin’ back of the bus where you belong. Even if you did get into a break, you’d be shelled. Instantly. Save your energy for the Internet chat forums after the race where your handle is “CritStud” and nobody fuggin’ knows you’re a greasy-fingered Cheetos addict with a saggy ass and a Cat 5 racing license.
- Don’t fuggin’ wait. You know the idiot who burns all his matches drilling it at the front in the first four laps? Sure you do, because that idiot is YOU. Let’s face it, when the screws get turned on the last five laps you’ll be so far back that your girlfriend will need a fuggin’ telescope to see your saggy ass. So, the time to do the glory pull is NOW. Early and often, then sink to the rear and soft pedal. All you need to be able to say is “Didja see me?” and get a cool head-of-the-field glory shot by Danny Munson or Phil Beckman. Fuggin’ winning.
- Panic like a motherfugger. When the race starts you should already have crapped four times and be nervouser than a tuna fish at a sushi cooking class. Veer like a crazyfugg from right to left, bounce off other racers like a pinball, charge the fuggin’ inside line on crowded, tight turns, and scream at everyone like you’ve got Ebola and can’t wait to share it. It’s the only way you’ll move up. To 55th.
- Complain about the fuggin’ prize list. So what if you finished 84th? Let the fuggin’ cheapass promoter know that if he’d been giving out hundred dollar bills instead of old socks you would have lapped the field. If he’s giving out hundred dollar bills tell him he’s a sellout fugghead for commercializing our pure sport and you finished 98th as a protest. If he punches you in the face it’s because you fuggin’ deserved it.
- Tell the officials they fuggin’ suck. Even a genius like you can’t win when the game’s rigged, and the game-riggers are the fuggin’ cheatfugg officials. Tell ’em! Remind the zebras about how when you rode bandit in the Ol’ Scratchynuts Century where there were NO fuggin’ USA Cycling officials, you finished in the money, and her name was Zelda.
- Make the winners fear your fuggin’ gap. So what if you corner like a battleship with a broken rudder? There’s no reason the winners should benefit from that. Hustle towards the front and do your patented full-brake-plus-gap-out pedal stroke into the turn, opening up 12 bike lengths that everyone else has to sprint around. Are they mad? Do they yell and bitch? Does it make them tired? Sucks to be them, fuggers.
- Bounce your fuggin’ check. The d-bags promoting your event don’t deserve to eat, so always pay for your race with a bad check. They’ll never turn it over to the D.A., and the joke’s on them for taking money from a guy like you with road rash on his nuts anyway. It’s more fun than banditing a century, because the promoter has to pay a bad check fee to boot. Sucks to be him, fugger!
- Piss in the fuggin’ bushes. Just because the fuggin’ maroon promoter paid to have 15 port-o-potties doesn’t mean you have to use them. Whip out Mr. Business when the bag is full and whizz anywhere you want, especially if it’s near little kids or first time wives who’ve come to see their man race. If they think it’s a family affair, they got another think coming, especially when they see what a big ol’ handful of veined-up purplish manly wood looks like while they’re feeding animal crackers to the kids and grandma.
Anyway, I hope this helps all you aspiring crit racers out there. Good luck!
For $2.99 per month you can subscribe to this blog, which is kind of a bargain. Click here and select the “subscribe” link in the upper right-hand corner. Thank you!