Jersey, part two.
When I last left you, I was sitting on the couch internetting and drinking High Life. Which is the #1 doctor prescribed solution for a cycling injury.
Stage 3: In which Ryan starts to think he wasted his money
But I couldn’t wait around much longer. Thursday was an ITT. I bought a TT bike this winter, in hopes of crushing my teammate Duncan McGovern in any and all TTs that I would compete against him in. This was my first chance to do so…and sadly, I was working with a 50% function right leg. Not ideal.
It probably wasn’t a great idea for me to race, but I was in Jersey, it was a stage race, and I had nothing else to do with my day. So we put bikes on roof and headed over to the TT. The TT was also the first day of the points race, which was open to 3s, masters and women. Meaning if I wasn’t able to RIDE fast, I at least had to look fast.
Thanks to Bob Threeton’s expert fit help at Exeter Cycles, a skinsuit and a TT helmet…I looked fast. This was made more obvious when after the race, Rossman assumed I did well because I looked fast.
Item 27 on my life to-do list is now complete: Impress Rossman.
The course was of an undetermined length (things not being super-organized was becoming a staple of this race). A time around 30 minutes was considered “good”, so I was sort of hoping for that.
My leg, however, was hoping that I wouldn’t pedal. I wasn’t able to pull up with my right leg, and any time I deviated from a perfectly vertical motion, it felt like some was grabbing my tendons through my skin and tugging on them. As a result…I wasn’t going very fast.
I started with Ryan Fleming 30 seconds behind me, and some guy from the Wendy’s team 30 seconds in front of me. The Wendy’s guy was obviously scared when I rolled up to the line with my Fabian-esque build and TT bike. He asked if I was a good time trialist. I said that under good circumstances I was mediocre.
Off he went, and that was the last I saw of him.
Then I started. After riding for a bit, I noticed that my left leg was also seizing up – probably because I pedaled back one-legged after the race was neutralized the previous day, and was probably pedaling mostly with my left leg today.
Then…OH SHIT. SOMEONE PASSED ME. IS THAT…Fleming? Goddamnit. I’ve only been racing for two minutes…and he’s made up 30 seconds on me.
I’ll save you the boring specifics, other than to say I went really slowly, hurt a lot, got passed by EIGHT PEOPLE and was throughly demoralized. It’s a bummer because I know I’m stronger than the result, and I was hoping to have ONE solid TT race in before Fitchburg. Oh well.
In other interesting news, there were no officials at the turnaround for the first few riders (which included our own Ben Coleman). So Ben missed the turnaround, rode an additional unnecessary 2k, came back, and protested to the officials. For his insolence he was given a two minute penalty.
Let me break this down for you (and USA Cycling, who I am sure is reading this):
1. No officials at the turnaround.
2. Rider misses turnaround, totally ruining his hopes of a good finish.
3. Rider protests lack of officials, hoping for (maybe) a prorated time, or an apology.
4. Rider gets penalized 2 minutes for calling out idiocy.
5. Profit.
Ben was happy. Interestingly enough, even with his 2 minute penalty, HE BEAT ME BY 3 SECONDS. ARGH.
There were three pages of results. NorEast managed to solidly hold down the third page. We owned that third page of results.
After the race we were all sad. I was gimping around, Rudy was upset because if we gave him a TT helmet he was going to win and Rossman was quiet. We de-biked, bike-roofed, Saturn-piled and went Wegemans. There was a picture of Mr. Wegeman. I thought of Mike Anthony. I stole an egg roll.
That’s all there is to that.
Stage 4: In which Ryan proves his worth as a team director
It wasn’t raining at this point. But it was supposed to. I was sad. I was still hobbling. But Colin Jaskewicz’s mom once again made us a tasty breakfast. I was still sad.
Once again, back in the Saturn. Pulse 87.7 on the radio. Jerome reminding us (Duncan and I) that our taste in music sucks.
We got to the race, found a sweet overhang, got our shit together, and got to the line – to discover that we were once again going to have a totally sweet partial neutral lap. In Jersey, neutral laps are just a way for the roads soaked with the leaked oil of countless Trans-Ams to take out weakling bitches from New England. Awesome.
Still not raining, though.
So we do the first lap, stop being neutral, and I’m tailgunning. Like, Rossman is in front of me. That level of tailgunning. My legs felt like doodoo butter, I didn’t want to crash and die, and I had no motivation to try to go fast.
Really? Did I want to sit at the front with Colavita as they kept the field strung out? No thanks.
The course had this one hill, followed by a downhill. And flat sections in between. Along with some beatass wooden bridges. Solid stuff.
The first time up the hill…I got dropped. Which was made more annoying by the fact that I had two bottles in my jersey along with enough food for an 80 mile road race – food that I would never eat, because I was clearly fucked. Climbing, off the back, with excess bottles is REALLY DEPRESSING.
I managed to fat-man it on the descent, and sat on the wheel of Ed Beamon as he dragged me back to the group. I was still fucked.
I made it up the hill the next time. But the third time…no luck. I was pretty bummed, too, because I was starting to make conversation with some dude who had a bunch of steel plates in his shoulder. He and I were both tailgunning it, and I wanted to hang out with him. At this point it was raining, and I was pretty sure I would have died on the descent, so I wasn’t that heart broken.
As I came through the start/finish, the first rider dropped, I asked the officials if I had to finish to start tomorrow. They said yes. I said “That’s not cool.”
I rode another half mile before I realized I was on a silly endeavor, gave up, and rode back to my car. Which has heat. And a roof. And a radio. And the Mortal Kombat soundtrack. Also driving my car doesn’t cause excruciating pain in my right hip.
After changing, I stood under the top-secret overhang we had found. I looked at my car and thought about my options. I could sit in my car and sleep. I didn’t have a book, so that was a no-go. No computer. No GameBoy.
However…there was an established race caravan.
Bingo.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m riding the bumper of the Colavita team car, listening to the Mortal Kombat soundtrack and making posts to Twitter. I was also certainly not attempting to give people drafts back to the field or pulling people up the climb on my mirror. No sir. Not me.
I got back to the start/finish in time to LIVE TWEET IT BECAUSE I’M SO INTERNET/WEB/GIGS/ITT TECH. I felt like a real cycling journalist.
Then I drove back to the top-secret awning and gave Peter Bell his required post-race High Life. Because I am not only the NorEast team director…I’m also an enabler for MetLife.
That was that. Part 3 will outline adventures in crit watching and Harlem driving. Because I don’t feel like writing another thousand words right now.
I should probably apologize to you, since I’m the one who fit Fleming to his TT bike as well. In fact, he was using my Zipp wheels!
Evidently, we’re both enablers for Met Life.
You do look really fast, though!