Like meandering herds of grazing fauna, the pros roam the country, seeking sustenance in the form of prize money. I'm pretty sure Steve Irwin was going to do a special on the migratory habits of the professional cyclist (properly termed Tanlynicus Wattagous), but he felt they were too risky a species to work around.
Memorial Day weekend traditionally marks the convergence of the crit-mongers in Central Jersey. Crits are multi-lap, intense races around a short course, the Arena Football to road racing's NFL. You watch the race pass you dozens and dozens of times, you feel the gust of wind generated by the racers, and if you know what you're looking for, you can watch the drama unfold from the comfort of a lawn chair.
Friday through Sunday were pretty much the minor leagues, a chance for mediocre newbies such as myself to race before the big boys came out to play. Even today, they let the Juniors, Masters, and Cat3s warm the crowd up before the headliners took to the course.
My good friend Mandy was the first Cottage of Wattage to grace my humble apartment. She rides for TargetTraining. She rides fast for TargetTraining.
On Sunday, after watching the 3/4 race in Bound Brook (which took place not 100 yards from where my Mom grew up), we collected a small group of Rutgers kids - Beastie, Rich, and Pluto joined us - and headed for the hills. It was a thoroughly fantastic ride, ~70mi of playing on the bikes.
The middle hour was super-competitive, and I set a new PR on my benchmark climb (3:32, 9 sec off my old time but still 2 sec behind Jenks' best). Then Mandy brought out the big guns. Withering, whimpering, wheezing 4 wheels back, I watched as she moved to the front of our train and her body language changed. I'm struggling to verbalize the metamorphosis; suffice it to say that if you've raced bikes, you know what she did, and if not, don't worry about it.
Eventually I recovered. Since Mandy is racing a World Cup race in Montreal next weekend, I took it upon myself to aid her in her training. As we climbed the easy side of Washington Rock, I shouted such encouragement as "Allez l'Americain!", "Merde!", and "Fromage!"
We met up with Mike, of Team Jelly Belly, at the barbecue at the house of His Majesty King Hermes. Thanks, King Hermes! 'Twas delicious. Mike, too, invaded my living room, bringing the average wattage-production potential of the apartment to near-dangerous levels. The air was abuzz with wattage.
Am I going overboard?
Today was the big show, the Tour of Somerville. I drove Mandy and her sexy-hot Aegis out, then met up with the Rutgers kids and our sponsors, the Efingers crew. Like last year, we were lucky enough to mooch off the Colavita BBQ, and let me tell you, those guys know how to cook a burger.
There was, of course, a little chaos with which to contend. Mandy's stuff had to be transferred from my car to her team car, the location of which was a complete mystery to me. Even worse, she got crashed out of her race (she's too nice to write about it, but I saw it go down... she got crashed), so I had no idea whether she was at her team car, in an ambulance, at a hospital, or what.
During Mike's 2 hour race, Will and I set off to find Mandy. It turns out she was fine. A little bruised, but none the worse for wear, especially after a few cups of the Recovery Ale she'd liberated from somebody's keg.
Having traveled to Somerville via his bike, Mike rode a helluva race, especially given that he was solo in a giant field stacked with big teams. He made a couple of breaks, fought hard for position, and finished pretty easily in the money. The process of finding him afterwards to coordinate the return trip was, as expected, chaotic. Everything worked out well, though, also as expected.
What a great finish to an amazing weekend. Frankly, I'm running out of superlatives.
Leaving for Mexico in 2 days. Happy.
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