Camp LivingRoom

One of the unsung features of the domestic racing scene is host housing. Why pay for a hotel when you can sleep on a couch? As far as what the reward is for the host, well, it's less tangible... but I'm pretty sure that one becomes faster by proximity to a pro.

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.

Jenks plays in the Cat3 race
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.

Mandy corners
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.

Will, Mark, and Don represent Rutgers Cycling... so pro
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.

Hooray for Charlie is all I have to say
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.

It's a little like Where's Waldo... can you find the Mike?
What a great finish to an amazing weekend. Frankly, I'm running out of superlatives.

Leaving for Mexico in 2 days. Happy.

Wednesday Night with the Kids

New team members, all full of piss and vinegar, are fun. They have new bikes, a basic understanding of drafting, and the irrational competitive drive that leads us to bike racing in the first place. The skills, though... they don't so much have the skills. So we teach them.

There were 8 or 9 or so of us Rutgers racers on last night's "recovery" ride. I think I was the only one intent on riding easy, the rest were just looking to have some playtime on the bike. That's fine by me, I just let them attack each other, rode with the stragglers, and caught up at the next traffic light.

After about 45 minutes, Diane, Asphalt Eric, and Fixie Christian (now on a geared bike) joined me in an parking lot in Johnson Park for some cornering practice. Not that I'm the cornering guru; in fact, it's quite the opposite. Nobody taught me the proper technique back when I started riding, and I developed some bad habits. That's exactly why it was important to spend time with the newbies, teaching them what Angry Mark and Captain Chaz have spent the past 3 years teaching me.

At one point, we were standing around, discussing the finer points of entry speed, when a car entered the parking lot. It drove straight at us. Being in Johnson Park, where the rules of the road are more like Cannonball Run than Driving Miss Daisy, I got a little nervous... until the driver of the car was revealed to be that Master of Corners, His Royal Highness King Hermes, who was stopping by to say hello.

I hereby resolve to lengthen King Hermes' title every time I write about him.

Once everyone was comfortable cornering at speed and in a pack, we were ready for dinner. Farmer Andy (aka Trent Steele) was kind enough to swipe me into the dining hall, and Charlie and FroJoe did the same for Eric and Diane. Walking - sliding, really - around the busy dining hall in our clicky cycling shoes, wearing bright red spandex that leaves little to the imagination, we didn't exactly blend in. Also we were loud.

Like a fistful of sore thumbs...
...one of which has a trucker-stache

The food was good (and all-you-can-eat), and the company was great (and ate-all-they-could). Wednesday evening ride, you get an A+.

Secret Identity: REVEALED!

On a few occasions, I've referred to a friend of mine as "His Majesty, King of the Hermes", or some variation thereof. Why not call him by a play on his real name, like I do with SpikyHairWill, the Jenksster, and others? Because he asked.


For whatever reason, His Royal Yellow-and-Green Highness has expressed his interest in remaining anonymous. Apparently he considers himself "professional" and "responsible" and "respectable"...

Poppycock and balderdash! I'm hereby outing you, My Liege (-Bastogne-Liege).

For the true identity of King Hermes, click here!!!

Good Sportsmanship

This being the weekend of HPCX, the 'cross race put together by the Rutgers team, I was going to be spending a lot of time at Thompson Park. By coincidence, my cousin Sol informed me that he'd be racing at Thompson Park on Saturday morning.

So on Saturday morning, before anyone else from the team had arrived, I stood with my Aunt and egged him on while my Uncle roamed the course. Sol has a classic runner's build, and his economy of motion improves every time I watch him run. (He's going to write a smart-ass comment in response to that last sentence, but I don't care.) It was fun to cheer for him, really a rare treat.

As I understand it, Sol had his best race of the year. Not his best ever, but his time was the fastest this season, and he finished just behind competitors that had previously been putting significant time into him. Not that I cared; I was just glad for the opportunity to holler.

That said, what a boring course. Essentially, a lap and a half of a giant rectangle. One slight downhill, followed by a slight climb. I'm not saying that cross country should mimic parcours, but what's the harm in a little variety?

The HPCX course, on the other hand, was fantastic. As King Hermes intended, a real roller-coaster (after the first kilometer of muddy climbing, that is). As demanding of the reflexes as it was of the fitness. Well done, Mark and Rob and Your Majesty.

On Saturday morning, I had met up with Sol and his teammate soon after the race. The teammate, whose name I've forgotten but whom I shall henceforth refer to as Quintus (in honor of Ben), had fallen during the race. Nothing serious, but he'd slipped and hit the ground. A competitor stopped and helped him to his feet. Granted, Quintus hadn't been racing for the win, nor anything close to it. That wasn't the point.

Quintus was perceptive enough to appreciate this out loud. "That's real sportsmanship, I think". True enough, Quintus.

The best show of sportsmanship I saw all weekend came after the Men's Elite race. There had been some argy-bargy with a few hundred meters to go, peaking with one's hip being whacked by the other. As the two crossed the line, they came to a stop and faced each other. They were shouting, apparently on the verge of actually fist-fighting.

The following is from a letter I wrote to Richard Sachs (of the Richard Sachs team):

---

When a fight was about to break out just after the Men's Elite race at HPCX, everyone in the Rutgers camp was looking on in shock. In fact, from what I saw, everybody in the general area, racers and spectators, were frozen in shock.

The one person who wasn't frozen was a Richard Sachs guy. I think it was Matt, but I don't know for sure. Matt, or maybe Justin, rode in between the two guys as they squared off, and just like that, the
confrontation was over.

It was a really classy move that Matt, or maybe Justin, made, and it certainly reflected well on the character of the team as a whole. It's something that I think you, the team manager/owner/head-honcho, should be told about.

---

Wade told me about the letter he'd written to Amaroso's after the Amaroso's racer decked Jenks, and about how the Aquafina team had disbanded after word of one guy's inappropriate emails got back to management. It strikes me that it is as important to notify team management when you see something praiseworthy happen as when you see the bad. ATMO.

My shorts are longer than Sol's
but tighter
My race was eerily similar to Sol's, except with more turns and mud and hurdles and hills and fun. It was the result that was similar, I guess. Not my best race ever, but certainly my best this season, and I finished just behind Jim and Andy, who'd previously been leaving me in their dust.

As far as sportsmanship is concerned, maybe I didn't do so great. Not that I was obnoxious... it's just that I felt that my competitors needed to be informed of my opinions during crucial segments of the race. Like when a Carnegie Mellon kid tried to pass on the inside during a tight corner and only managed to ram into my side, I wondered aloud "Really? You're trying to pass me here? Really?" and then rode away.

Or when the CRCA guy remounted next to me after running the switchbacks I'd ridden. He'd passed me on foot, but his remount cost him momentum, and I moved to pass him. Neither of his feet found the pedals, and he drifted downhill towards me, running me into a stake and forcing me to a dead stop. I voiced my displeasure - not obnoxiously, but perhaps not in the manner of a saint either.

"Left side. Left side. LEFT SIDE. DUDE. DUDE!! DUDE!!! ... dude"

Moments

It's weird, how races that last from 30 minutes to 2 hours seem to be stored in my memory as flashes of sensation. Mere moments define long, lung-burning, leg-shredding epics. It's not like I forget the rest, it's just that these moments serve as icons, as thumbnails if you will.

Last month at Granogue, the moment was that split second between when the front wheel shot out to the side and when my body hit the ground. At 'cross Nationals this year, it was the moment when the official pulled everyone off the course, as we were in danger of being lapped eventually. At Westlake last year, it was the view when I glanced back at the end of the finishing straight a mile after attacking and saw nothing, nobody even remotely close to catching us.

Sometimes they're race defining moments, like all of the ones I just mentioned. I listed them because they make sense. Sometimes, though, the moments have nothing to do with racing. The Army circuit from 2007, for example, is irrevocably linked to Bobby Darin's "Beyond the Sea", which is weird but that's how it is.

Today was one of those days. I won't remember it for the moment of desperation when I realized that I couldn't quite bridge to the solo breakaway that would eventually win. It won't be defined by the moment when I chose to go outside instead of inside through the final corner, against Will's prescient advice during yesterday's preride.

For me, today's race was defined by my trip in the race director's car, passing on group of stragglers to catch the remainder of the shredded pack in the Women's Open race. King Hermes knows how to corner on two wheels or four, and the screeching of the tires as the car leaned away from the apex of the course's nastiest turn was just fun. Very fun.

Alert Merriam-Webster!

Oh how I wish that the credit for this groundbreaking new word could go to me. Alas, I must give credit where it is due... this term was innovated by none other than his Royal Highness, King of the Hermes.

Blogtercourse (noun) - The excessive exchange of blog comments, or in some cases, entire posts, by two consenting bloggers.