TLI - A Bridge Too Fast
Posted: Wed Jun 25, 2008 3:56 pm
First, a warning: this is a long (and frankly narcissistic) post, about a short (and frankly unimportant) race. It’s probably safest to skip to the next thread – there could be a reassuring discussion about gear ratios or squeaky headsets. Although, now I think about it, there is a bit of techie detail in this one, about half way down; but you’ll have to wade through a lot of impressionistic fluff first, so best not to bother.
Second, a riposte, but emphatically not an apology, to any Elite racers or Etapeocrats who may think a 30-mile handicap circuit race near Selby, where the biggest climb is a railway bridge (you said - a *bridge*?), isn’t really a race at all. Wrong. For me, it was real enough..
Third, the strangest thing: the ride back. It should have been horrible. I was cut and bruised, riding into the breeze, it was getting dark, starting to rain, I’d failed in my main aim – to finish with the bunch on my first road race – and because I spent too long chatting to all the six-wheelers, while the strictly two-wheeled slipped away, I was on my own. And yet it was easy: I was so busy thinking over what happened, I was over Cawood bridge and on the home straight before I really noticed. Actually, I was already writing this post.
Fourth, the arrogant decision to sign up for the middle group on my first RR outing. The main reason was that I wanted to know what I was up against from the word go, rather than trundling round looking over my shoulder wondering when we’d be caught, and whether I’d be able to lift pace to match. I think it worked out okay.
Fifth, the best bits. The realisation half way round the first lap that I was *in* the race. I could cope with the pace, the pushing for position, the accelerations, the ebb and flow of the bunch. I hadn’t hit anybody and I wasn’t going to be dropped as long as I didn’t screw up. Right?
Then there was the simple exhilaration of the pace. Coasting *uphill* in a draft at 28mph is… fun. Dropping low for the tailwind section and spinning along at thirty (well, it felt like thirty) was a blast. And hitching a lift in a quiet section all the way to the front of the pack behind someone you don’t know is hard to beat. You could do it all day.
Actually getting onto the front (excepting the novice group) for thirty seconds was also a thrill, somewhat short lived due to the untimely emergence of a van which caused the whole group to concertina down to crawling speed.
Best of all, considering what happened later, was a futile solo dash for glory. After a convenient tow up to the lead group on lap four, there was cry of ‘car’ and the bunch, well, bunched. Then, on the next bend, two yellow fellows seized their chance and sped off the front. For no good reason I took that a little badly, because I’d been forced back by the car. Nobody else responded, and that made me even angrier so I just sprinted. It was a big surprise that I managed to get across – and with no passengers – but it didn’t last. They went into an S-bend and my shabby cornering failed me. Somehow one went wide, the other went tight, and I went backwards. Stranded in high gear, my legs turned to lead and I slumped back. The bunch couldn’t catch me quick enough.
Sixth, the worst bit. I fell off. You probably guessed that by now. As far as I know, only two people did, and I was one of them. A couple more were forced to stop. I can’t be quite sure why it happened, but half way up the last bridge, with riders (including me) going wide into the wrong lane, there was some kind of shout and the group slowed and tightened back to the left. That meant we were squeezed up close, so when somebody a few slots ahead slowed sharply, it all went wrong. I braked hard, but the guy ahead to my right swerved left, I presume to avoid a collision, and cut across my front wheel. I couldn’t believe that I’d stuck with it to the final lap, and now I was going down, but I was. Ouch. Bike bounces, land on left side, curl down, try to look back – who’s going to ride over me? Relief, nobody, this is near the back and there’s enough space. Get up, wallet’s lying on the ground, grab it, drop it, someone else fetches it. Several riders have stopped to check, and now here’s the tail car. Are you okay? Yes, just a bit cut. They move off. Bike won’t go. Check. Chain is off, drag it back on. Try to pedal off. Nasty scraping noise. Gears are all out. Change down, slot in, build up the pace. I’ve got a couple of the stragglers with me now, a man and a woman, I ride ahead and ask if they can see what’s making the noise. They can’t. I think the back rim is bent, but it’s not too bad to ride.
I can’t believe that I got this close to my target – finish in the bunch – but Bang! Now they’re in the distance, out of site. Who’s up for the chase? We form a little gruppetto, a straggler’s pace line, and I try to drag the pace back up to 24mph but it feels horribly slow. The woman takes a turn, we collect a couple more stragglers, and lose some more. In the last straight it’s down to just me and the first guy, and we push each other on – we’re going quite fast now! But here comes the pack, long since finished, pedalling back down the course to HQ. I knew we couldn’t catch them but it still hurts to see them chatting around the race car as we roll in.
A moment of comedy when a finish judge comes up – “are you the guy in red who finished sixth?” No – I mean yes, of course! Never mind. Now I’m chatting to the guy I’ve crossed the line with, asking him if he could see the crash, what actually caused it. He was too far back, but he tells me this is his first race since a 60mph bike-car collision a year ago, with weeks of intensive care, surgery, and slow recovery. He’s been stuck on a trainer up until now, and he’s pleased just to have got round. It’s clear there’s a difference. I fell off. He had a crash. I shouldn’t complain, I’m lucky really, and yet – it was so near! Damn… feel like crying or hitting someone, but I’ve no idea who cut me up anyway. For all I know, he doesn’t even know I went down. Shit happens. But what’s the point in racing if you can work so hard to get it right for 90% of the race and then just get swatted away by the ripples radiating from one random panicky rider?
When I get back to HQ, first thing, a van nearly reverses into me. Not again! I holler loud, she stops, apologises. Tinted windows. Twilight. Bad combination. Then I tell the others the story, check the wounds (left shoulder and hip, red rash, no blood; elbow and knee, cuts, some bleeding), check the bike. What was scraping? The back wheel is off true, rubbing on the stay, but the rim is fine - it’s just the skewer that’s been wrenched forward in the drop-out. Fantastic! I’ve had these wheels a week, I really don’t want to replace them already.
Seventh, what worked? The TLI. It was easy, I could enter on the line, there were marshals, race cars, everyone was friendly, and there was no sense of intimidation. Even ‘why have I got two numbers?’ received a polite answer. It’s a system that lets lots of people race, and I’m all for it.
The bike. (I said there would be a techie bit, and here it is). It’s a funny machine – a metallic blue 1994 Orbit Reynolds 531 steel frame with late ‘80s Campagnolo and Modolo wiggly bits, six-speed mech and elegant metal down-tube friction shifters, and lovely Cinelli LA84 ‘pursuit’ bars, all cadged off a friend’s bike he wasn’t bothered with any more, in an abortive attempt to ‘try Triathlon’ fifteen years ago. It’s sat in several garages for most of the interim, until I dusted it down and turned it into a summer commuting bike last year. I do have a basic aluminium STI-equipped racer, but the old bike just seems to handle better and is, well, *springier* for want of a better word. (And the racer has TT bars sort of stuck to it.) So I wanted to stick to steel.
My concession to modernity was to ditch the wrought-iron wheels and chain, and fit Ksyrium Equipes with a SRAM superlight 12-26 cassette (on which the mech can reach a massive 75% of the cogs) and Stelvio tyres (is that enough tech talk yet?). After that, the bike *felt* more than quick enough, but I was still nervous that it would seem very last century next to the curved, twisted and profiled 30-speed carbon wizardry of the Noughties. Not at all; it felt great all the way round, and I was never bothered by gears or the lack of drops. There was a little psychology here too – if I was on a comedy bike, anything I managed to achieve would count more. The one thing that may need attention are the brakes (actually that’s two things).
The clothes. Despite quite a hard fall, nothing tore, and my GroundEffect (NZ MTB clothing firm – worth a look) shorts protected my hip very well – a big red graze, but no blood, and no damage to the shorts either. Luckily I went for arm warmers or my elbow would be very ugly.
The guys (and gals) at the back. Everyone was more bothered about me than they were about racing, they waited to be sure I was okay and helped me get going again. I think the TLI spirit was excellent.
Eighth, the lessons. Cornering was a big surprise. I thought I was Captain Cautious, but everyone slowed right down (nice), swung out (okay) and then sped away (not nice) from every bend. I started to get the hang of it a bit: stay wide; ease off and change down early so you don’t have to break hard or change as you go in, and then (this was the hard bit) get your weight forward and *start working* hard while you’re still in the bend, or the gaps open up and you’re battling to get back onto a wheel.
Cross winds were trouble too. There was only a gentle breeze, but the most exposed part of the course seemed to have the wind come in from the left. I’ve heard about echelons, but it was still a surprise to see it happening: everyone tried to tuck in on the right of the wheel in front, so the pack strung out in a messy diagonal streak across the road. It was too easy to get forced inside one of these ‘echelons’, taking too much wind, and with no way out except to drop a long way back and try to muscle back in on the outside.
After two laps of getting ‘caught to windward’ I came up with a plan, putting the two elements together. If I managed to drift wide before the exposed part, and got a good line and acceleration off the corner, I could push up on the right hand side of the other riders and then just sit there in the shelter. If I misjudged the bend and lost speed, other people would accelerate round me and get the leeward spots. You could try to ease them over the centre line by drifting out anyway, but that didn’t quite seem in the spirit of a TLI race (being a bulky 90kg it was very tempting to throw some weight but I resisted doing it deliberately at least).
There’s a pothole on the inside of a bend. Don’t ride into it. I did, but only once.
Being in the middle of the bunch in the middle of the race, I realised I just didn’t know what was happening. Had a big break got away? What about the two guys I failed to stick too earlier? Had they been caught? Were there two groups now? It didn’t really matter much, but it was unnerving how easy it was to get sucked into the intricacies of protecting *your* position in *your* part of the group while losing site of the actual race. I suppose you need to stay close to the front, but not everyone can, and I didn’t.
Ninth, a point on its own: Herd Mentality. I started to see that the middle of the bunch – perhaps not the leaders – does a lot of things which don’t make much sense. If something happens, everyone nearby reacts automatically, but the reaction is blinkered, a little late, a little too much. A gap starts to open, so everyone revs up; but they don’t see that three rows ahead, people are already easing off. So soon they’re back on the brakes; but now the people ahead are moving again; so they start to sprint. So it goes on. It’s not efficient, but it’s very easy to get drawn in to it. Somehow – I don’t know how yet – you’ve got to see more, react earlier, be more measured. Then you can keep it smooth.
Tenth, the What If? What if I’d stuck to the two yellow escapers? They got caught, sure, but with three of us? We could have worked it, stayed ahead long enough. But don’t be ridiculous, what do I know about what it takes to keep a 3-man break ahead of a hungry pack of forty over twelve long miles? At least if I’d gone with them, maybe I’d have been nearer the front on the last bridge, away from the trouble… Yeah, right.
Eleventh, a message. If you’re thinking about road racing, ditch the excuses and do it. I got cut down on the last lap, but it was still the most exciting thing I’ve done all year. Far more fun than TT. Go to the chaingang, learn to ride in a bunch, to close gaps, to hold a steady line. When you’re happy with that, go to a League event. And stop worrying about speed. It doesn’t matter. The chain gang I joined was much harder work than this race, and we must have averaged 24mph at the most on the way back. I’m not sure what we averaged yesterday, but I did notice I was *coasting* at thirty a fair bit. To be honest, I hardly looked at the speedo; all I cared about was where I was in the bunch, how I felt, what I thought was happening next, and what I needed to do to take advantage.
Twelfth and last, the recovery. After I got home, I calmed down, ate, and thought through the collision again. Adrenalin hinders your recall, but I distinctly remember thinking as we went onto the bridge, ‘Lots of people are over on the right, and this is a blind summit. It doesn’t make sense.’ But I went with them, because that was the flow of the pack and I didn’t want to drop any further back. On previous laps, there had been much less lane leakage, but I suppose everyone was twitchy about giving ground so late in the race. I realise now my instincts were warning me, but I ignored them. I had got too confident, and started to absorb the herd mentality. It didn’t matter if there was a car coming or not; all it takes is for someone to *think* there’s a problem and move back left in a panic. If I’d dropped back to stay left and keep safe, I would have been well away from the problem, riding round the mess instead of being in it. Perhaps that’s the real lesson. Don’t go with the herd; exploit them, but keep your own ideas. The best things about the race for me, like the futile sprint, came when I didn’t care for what the pack was doing and did my own thing. You can’t ignore them, but you don’t have to copy them.
Maybe next time…
Second, a riposte, but emphatically not an apology, to any Elite racers or Etapeocrats who may think a 30-mile handicap circuit race near Selby, where the biggest climb is a railway bridge (you said - a *bridge*?), isn’t really a race at all. Wrong. For me, it was real enough..
Third, the strangest thing: the ride back. It should have been horrible. I was cut and bruised, riding into the breeze, it was getting dark, starting to rain, I’d failed in my main aim – to finish with the bunch on my first road race – and because I spent too long chatting to all the six-wheelers, while the strictly two-wheeled slipped away, I was on my own. And yet it was easy: I was so busy thinking over what happened, I was over Cawood bridge and on the home straight before I really noticed. Actually, I was already writing this post.
Fourth, the arrogant decision to sign up for the middle group on my first RR outing. The main reason was that I wanted to know what I was up against from the word go, rather than trundling round looking over my shoulder wondering when we’d be caught, and whether I’d be able to lift pace to match. I think it worked out okay.
Fifth, the best bits. The realisation half way round the first lap that I was *in* the race. I could cope with the pace, the pushing for position, the accelerations, the ebb and flow of the bunch. I hadn’t hit anybody and I wasn’t going to be dropped as long as I didn’t screw up. Right?
Then there was the simple exhilaration of the pace. Coasting *uphill* in a draft at 28mph is… fun. Dropping low for the tailwind section and spinning along at thirty (well, it felt like thirty) was a blast. And hitching a lift in a quiet section all the way to the front of the pack behind someone you don’t know is hard to beat. You could do it all day.
Actually getting onto the front (excepting the novice group) for thirty seconds was also a thrill, somewhat short lived due to the untimely emergence of a van which caused the whole group to concertina down to crawling speed.
Best of all, considering what happened later, was a futile solo dash for glory. After a convenient tow up to the lead group on lap four, there was cry of ‘car’ and the bunch, well, bunched. Then, on the next bend, two yellow fellows seized their chance and sped off the front. For no good reason I took that a little badly, because I’d been forced back by the car. Nobody else responded, and that made me even angrier so I just sprinted. It was a big surprise that I managed to get across – and with no passengers – but it didn’t last. They went into an S-bend and my shabby cornering failed me. Somehow one went wide, the other went tight, and I went backwards. Stranded in high gear, my legs turned to lead and I slumped back. The bunch couldn’t catch me quick enough.
Sixth, the worst bit. I fell off. You probably guessed that by now. As far as I know, only two people did, and I was one of them. A couple more were forced to stop. I can’t be quite sure why it happened, but half way up the last bridge, with riders (including me) going wide into the wrong lane, there was some kind of shout and the group slowed and tightened back to the left. That meant we were squeezed up close, so when somebody a few slots ahead slowed sharply, it all went wrong. I braked hard, but the guy ahead to my right swerved left, I presume to avoid a collision, and cut across my front wheel. I couldn’t believe that I’d stuck with it to the final lap, and now I was going down, but I was. Ouch. Bike bounces, land on left side, curl down, try to look back – who’s going to ride over me? Relief, nobody, this is near the back and there’s enough space. Get up, wallet’s lying on the ground, grab it, drop it, someone else fetches it. Several riders have stopped to check, and now here’s the tail car. Are you okay? Yes, just a bit cut. They move off. Bike won’t go. Check. Chain is off, drag it back on. Try to pedal off. Nasty scraping noise. Gears are all out. Change down, slot in, build up the pace. I’ve got a couple of the stragglers with me now, a man and a woman, I ride ahead and ask if they can see what’s making the noise. They can’t. I think the back rim is bent, but it’s not too bad to ride.
I can’t believe that I got this close to my target – finish in the bunch – but Bang! Now they’re in the distance, out of site. Who’s up for the chase? We form a little gruppetto, a straggler’s pace line, and I try to drag the pace back up to 24mph but it feels horribly slow. The woman takes a turn, we collect a couple more stragglers, and lose some more. In the last straight it’s down to just me and the first guy, and we push each other on – we’re going quite fast now! But here comes the pack, long since finished, pedalling back down the course to HQ. I knew we couldn’t catch them but it still hurts to see them chatting around the race car as we roll in.
A moment of comedy when a finish judge comes up – “are you the guy in red who finished sixth?” No – I mean yes, of course! Never mind. Now I’m chatting to the guy I’ve crossed the line with, asking him if he could see the crash, what actually caused it. He was too far back, but he tells me this is his first race since a 60mph bike-car collision a year ago, with weeks of intensive care, surgery, and slow recovery. He’s been stuck on a trainer up until now, and he’s pleased just to have got round. It’s clear there’s a difference. I fell off. He had a crash. I shouldn’t complain, I’m lucky really, and yet – it was so near! Damn… feel like crying or hitting someone, but I’ve no idea who cut me up anyway. For all I know, he doesn’t even know I went down. Shit happens. But what’s the point in racing if you can work so hard to get it right for 90% of the race and then just get swatted away by the ripples radiating from one random panicky rider?
When I get back to HQ, first thing, a van nearly reverses into me. Not again! I holler loud, she stops, apologises. Tinted windows. Twilight. Bad combination. Then I tell the others the story, check the wounds (left shoulder and hip, red rash, no blood; elbow and knee, cuts, some bleeding), check the bike. What was scraping? The back wheel is off true, rubbing on the stay, but the rim is fine - it’s just the skewer that’s been wrenched forward in the drop-out. Fantastic! I’ve had these wheels a week, I really don’t want to replace them already.
Seventh, what worked? The TLI. It was easy, I could enter on the line, there were marshals, race cars, everyone was friendly, and there was no sense of intimidation. Even ‘why have I got two numbers?’ received a polite answer. It’s a system that lets lots of people race, and I’m all for it.
The bike. (I said there would be a techie bit, and here it is). It’s a funny machine – a metallic blue 1994 Orbit Reynolds 531 steel frame with late ‘80s Campagnolo and Modolo wiggly bits, six-speed mech and elegant metal down-tube friction shifters, and lovely Cinelli LA84 ‘pursuit’ bars, all cadged off a friend’s bike he wasn’t bothered with any more, in an abortive attempt to ‘try Triathlon’ fifteen years ago. It’s sat in several garages for most of the interim, until I dusted it down and turned it into a summer commuting bike last year. I do have a basic aluminium STI-equipped racer, but the old bike just seems to handle better and is, well, *springier* for want of a better word. (And the racer has TT bars sort of stuck to it.) So I wanted to stick to steel.
My concession to modernity was to ditch the wrought-iron wheels and chain, and fit Ksyrium Equipes with a SRAM superlight 12-26 cassette (on which the mech can reach a massive 75% of the cogs) and Stelvio tyres (is that enough tech talk yet?). After that, the bike *felt* more than quick enough, but I was still nervous that it would seem very last century next to the curved, twisted and profiled 30-speed carbon wizardry of the Noughties. Not at all; it felt great all the way round, and I was never bothered by gears or the lack of drops. There was a little psychology here too – if I was on a comedy bike, anything I managed to achieve would count more. The one thing that may need attention are the brakes (actually that’s two things).
The clothes. Despite quite a hard fall, nothing tore, and my GroundEffect (NZ MTB clothing firm – worth a look) shorts protected my hip very well – a big red graze, but no blood, and no damage to the shorts either. Luckily I went for arm warmers or my elbow would be very ugly.
The guys (and gals) at the back. Everyone was more bothered about me than they were about racing, they waited to be sure I was okay and helped me get going again. I think the TLI spirit was excellent.
Eighth, the lessons. Cornering was a big surprise. I thought I was Captain Cautious, but everyone slowed right down (nice), swung out (okay) and then sped away (not nice) from every bend. I started to get the hang of it a bit: stay wide; ease off and change down early so you don’t have to break hard or change as you go in, and then (this was the hard bit) get your weight forward and *start working* hard while you’re still in the bend, or the gaps open up and you’re battling to get back onto a wheel.
Cross winds were trouble too. There was only a gentle breeze, but the most exposed part of the course seemed to have the wind come in from the left. I’ve heard about echelons, but it was still a surprise to see it happening: everyone tried to tuck in on the right of the wheel in front, so the pack strung out in a messy diagonal streak across the road. It was too easy to get forced inside one of these ‘echelons’, taking too much wind, and with no way out except to drop a long way back and try to muscle back in on the outside.
After two laps of getting ‘caught to windward’ I came up with a plan, putting the two elements together. If I managed to drift wide before the exposed part, and got a good line and acceleration off the corner, I could push up on the right hand side of the other riders and then just sit there in the shelter. If I misjudged the bend and lost speed, other people would accelerate round me and get the leeward spots. You could try to ease them over the centre line by drifting out anyway, but that didn’t quite seem in the spirit of a TLI race (being a bulky 90kg it was very tempting to throw some weight but I resisted doing it deliberately at least).
There’s a pothole on the inside of a bend. Don’t ride into it. I did, but only once.
Being in the middle of the bunch in the middle of the race, I realised I just didn’t know what was happening. Had a big break got away? What about the two guys I failed to stick too earlier? Had they been caught? Were there two groups now? It didn’t really matter much, but it was unnerving how easy it was to get sucked into the intricacies of protecting *your* position in *your* part of the group while losing site of the actual race. I suppose you need to stay close to the front, but not everyone can, and I didn’t.
Ninth, a point on its own: Herd Mentality. I started to see that the middle of the bunch – perhaps not the leaders – does a lot of things which don’t make much sense. If something happens, everyone nearby reacts automatically, but the reaction is blinkered, a little late, a little too much. A gap starts to open, so everyone revs up; but they don’t see that three rows ahead, people are already easing off. So soon they’re back on the brakes; but now the people ahead are moving again; so they start to sprint. So it goes on. It’s not efficient, but it’s very easy to get drawn in to it. Somehow – I don’t know how yet – you’ve got to see more, react earlier, be more measured. Then you can keep it smooth.
Tenth, the What If? What if I’d stuck to the two yellow escapers? They got caught, sure, but with three of us? We could have worked it, stayed ahead long enough. But don’t be ridiculous, what do I know about what it takes to keep a 3-man break ahead of a hungry pack of forty over twelve long miles? At least if I’d gone with them, maybe I’d have been nearer the front on the last bridge, away from the trouble… Yeah, right.
Eleventh, a message. If you’re thinking about road racing, ditch the excuses and do it. I got cut down on the last lap, but it was still the most exciting thing I’ve done all year. Far more fun than TT. Go to the chaingang, learn to ride in a bunch, to close gaps, to hold a steady line. When you’re happy with that, go to a League event. And stop worrying about speed. It doesn’t matter. The chain gang I joined was much harder work than this race, and we must have averaged 24mph at the most on the way back. I’m not sure what we averaged yesterday, but I did notice I was *coasting* at thirty a fair bit. To be honest, I hardly looked at the speedo; all I cared about was where I was in the bunch, how I felt, what I thought was happening next, and what I needed to do to take advantage.
Twelfth and last, the recovery. After I got home, I calmed down, ate, and thought through the collision again. Adrenalin hinders your recall, but I distinctly remember thinking as we went onto the bridge, ‘Lots of people are over on the right, and this is a blind summit. It doesn’t make sense.’ But I went with them, because that was the flow of the pack and I didn’t want to drop any further back. On previous laps, there had been much less lane leakage, but I suppose everyone was twitchy about giving ground so late in the race. I realise now my instincts were warning me, but I ignored them. I had got too confident, and started to absorb the herd mentality. It didn’t matter if there was a car coming or not; all it takes is for someone to *think* there’s a problem and move back left in a panic. If I’d dropped back to stay left and keep safe, I would have been well away from the problem, riding round the mess instead of being in it. Perhaps that’s the real lesson. Don’t go with the herd; exploit them, but keep your own ideas. The best things about the race for me, like the futile sprint, came when I didn’t care for what the pack was doing and did my own thing. You can’t ignore them, but you don’t have to copy them.
Maybe next time…