The Truth in Time Trials

It's been a few days since the Nebraska State Time Trial Championships, hosted by Team Velo Veloce.

I've heard it said that a cycling time trial is a race of truth. There is no peleton to hide among and conserve energy, and drafting isn't allowed. No, it's been said that the truth comes in how much suffering you can manage while racing against the clock.

Given that, I question how truthful time trials really are. There are lots of additional variables that enter the equation, including the fit on your bike, your bike's style (aero/road)and its wheel set. Other advantages include skin suits and TT helmets. And let's not forget the chamois ointments and sports creams.

Allow me to digress on the use of chamois butters and sports creams. Not too long ago, cyclists used real leather chamois in their shorts to provide a moisture absorbing layer to aide in saddle comfort. But after awhile, the chamois would become hardened. Ointments like bag balm were applied to help soften/condition the leather.

Later, synthetic chamois were developed. The synthetics advantage was that they didn't dry up and stiffen over time. They were also cheaper and could be marketed in AS SEEN ON TV spots.
Yet despite the popularity of synthetic chamois, cyclists still have found it difficult to part with these beloved ointment and creams. Many say that they provide a degree of protection against grimy (sweat) that contributes to saddle sores and chafing. While this information is valuable to any cyclists, it is of particular importance to the time trialer, who's spending the majority of time rocking back and forth on the nub horn of the saddle. The post-race suffering one can endure by failing to abide by this last point can be significant.

Now please note that these ointments are not to be confused with the icy/hot types of sports creams (think of a cycling-specific version of Ben-Gay with a 500% markup that is sold exclusively at your LBS). While the icy/hots have a legitimate place in cycling, you don't want to apply those down there. You know what I mean. But apparently during cold and wet conditions, icy/hots are applied to retain heat on the legs from calf to the upper vicinity -- but not too close! -- of the nether regions. Don't worry. If it's applied too liberally, you won't ever make that mistake again. Now I would never have guessed how popular the icy/hots were until I saw a a group of cyclists dipping their grimy hands into a communal jar at the Norfolk Classic race weekend. It was like, hey friend, that's some good stuff... and hey what's that on your lip... no worries... got any Chapstick you can also lend a buddy?"

Till date, I haven't used any of these sport creams or chamois butters. But if I do, I'll forgo all of these products for a simple jar of Noxzema. Noxzema has a solid reputation of efficacy. Take Ignatius Reilly, who had "several accessories which he had once used, a rubber glove, a piece of fabric from a silk umbrella, a jar of Noxzema" (Confederacy of Dunces, 46). Granted, Ignatius applied his practice with a different objective in mind (visions of his pet border collie, Rex), but the spirit of it all is still the same: lubrication.
Can lubrication make a difference in a time trial performance? The truth: not a chance.

I've come to realize that no matter how much training and Noxzema is applied, lacking aero equipment puts you at a significant disadvantage in a time trial. Among elites and pros, the equipment difference are often trivial, because they get all of the good stuff from their sponsors. Sometimes that includes a set of Mavic R-Sys wheels that can explode (allegedly) like a trick cigar. But for the most part, pro riders' equipment is neutralized.

On occasion, however, the advantages of using aero equipment over standard among the pros is obvious.

Take this year's final time trial at the Giro. On a short (15K) course through the eternal city, challenger Danilo "The Killer" di Luca used a standard road bike in his attempt to overtake overall General Classification leader Denis Menchov, who was riding a time trial bike. In a word: FAIL. I don't get it. The Killer was already 20 seconds in the hole before the TT even started AND going against the Giro's previous time trial winner. Yet despite a dramatic crash within sight of the finish line, Menchov crushed di Luca's hopes and sewed up the Giro victory by padding an additional 20 seconds to the overall time. Apparently, you can lay your TT bike down and still comfortably win a major tour against a roadie.

If it makes a difference in the pros, imagine the disparity among amateurs.

You don't need to imagine. I'm going to tell you.

In the cat5 field, I rode a TT bike and won the category by over six minutes. The rider in second place was on a standard road bike.

Among the cat4s, my effort would have been good for fourth place. In this category, those lower than fourth were mostly on standard road bikes.

Among the cat 1-2-3s, I don't believe that there wasn't a rider in the top twelve who used a standard road bike. Most in this group had very nice TT bikes, helmets, skin suits and the like. Moreover, the riders who finished in the bottom of this category are stronger riders than I am despite the fact their times were over two minutes slower.

From this point of view, the truth in time trialing is relative; equipment is a great equalizer.

Perhaps among amateurs, time trial races could offer an Eddie Merckx category, where no perceived advantages* are allowed. That way, those who don't have the luxury of a dedicated TT bike with expensive aero components can have a more truthful comparison against similar peers.

With the allowance of a few precious exceptions, that seems fair to me.
*EXCEPTIONS: Noxzema, rubber gloves, and a swatch of fabric from an old umbrella.

A Call to Prudence

As my previous WSCG blog suggests, I am now officially a cat5 bicycle racer.

As a bicycle racer, one is required to purchase a license from the United States Cycling Organization. You can buy a single day license for $10, or an annual license for $60. Since I'm now gulping the cycling Kool-Aid faster than it can be mixed, I opted for the annual license.

At $60, the whole license thing might seem a bit hokey to the outsider. The benefits include: 1) Ranking among 60,000+ amateur cyclists, 2) Discounts such as 10% hotel fees and magazines, and 3) Accident insurance. The latter is really the only thing that matters. Still, the marketing wizards do their best to assuage the insurance hating people that they're getting something useful (beyond insurance that they appreciate after wrecking) for their hard-earned bacon. I don't have any problems with bartering my bacon for the potential of paying medical bills. Cycling is a risky sport. I just wish they would call it accident insurance rather than the flimsy attempt to mask it with benefits I can find in the value-saver junk mail.

It's actually funny to imagine being ranked fairly among 60,000 people across different states, regions, etc. Can you imagine the BCS ranking 60k football teams? Take heart Boise State, I bet I am currently ranked 60,001 of 60,001. Helloooooooo up there!

The evening before amounted to preparing for the race: a once-over on Old Yeller, tweeting friends for a spare 9 speed wheel set to go in the wheel-truck (fail), packing and watching Conan on the Tonight Show, then the Family Guy, then Sienfeld. As I put my head on my two snow white pillows, I drifted off to sleep strategically planning how I would win the race the following morning. I was out in about 15 seconds.

The thunder and lightening served as an alarm clock at 5:30 AM. It was raining buckets as I loaded the car with Old Yeller and cycling gear for the short drive over to carpool with fellow cyclist Mike Miles (cat4). With the gloomy weather conditions, it was going to be an interesting day for a first road race among cat 5'rs.

On the way out, I asked Mike about cat5 racing strategy. He said that the best way to win the race was to sit in the pack about four deep from the front, so as to be ahead of the squirrels and to be ready to mark a potential threat that attacks from the group. That's the exact same advice that Shim (cat3) offered during a recent UP lunch ride. Both said that there would always be some yahoo who thought he was the stronger than the pack and would would launch several attacks before being swallowed back up by the group. Most cat5 races, they contended, ended in a sprint finish from the pack.

But when I got to the race, Chris Spence (cat3), gave me the green light to attack right from the beginning and TT all 32 miles to victory. Bryan Redemske (cat3) affirmed this vote of confidence.

Ultimately, I decided to sit in with the group and reassess at the halfway point of the single loop 32 mi course.

There were about 25 cat5 racers at the starting line. It was 48 F degrees and raining. I was shivering. It felt like November. I would've been at home if I hadn't become the 60,001 amateur cyclist the night before. But I was a committed foot-solder now.

There was a neutral rolling start for about a mile before the race officially started. From there, I sat in for about twenty minutes before losing patience. We were going about 16 mph on a false-flat with a slight crosswind. At this rate, it'd be two hours before we'd cross the finish line. I was getting antsy and decided that it was time to become that yahoo that Miles and Shim had forewarned about. Plan shifted here from assess to attack.

At the next hill, I dropped the hammer on the group and opened up a huge gap. Like outta sight, man. I continued pounding on the rolling hills through the next five miles of the road.

But after being away for about 15 minutes, I could see that the pack was closing in on me. With 16 miles to go, I sat up and let the pack catch me.

My efforts shed the group to 12 riders. A few in the pack were complimentary on the attack and my ability to stay away for as long as I did. Somebody suggested that I should add insult to injury by putting Huffy stickers on my plain powder-coated yellow frame. Huffy? No, I prefer to let people think that I stole the bike from Portland.

So I sat in with the group on my stolen bicycle with no name and let things get really comfortable. My heart rate plummeted to about 120 as we tried to organize a pace line. There was lots of talking. It was not unlike being on an easy peddling Shommer Shabbos+1 ride after a hard workout the previous day. If a Crane's Coffee shop was in sight, I do believe the group would have temporarily abandoned (possibly quit) the race for some 'joe.

Ultimately, I started getting cold again and prepared to yodel on the way to the top of the next climb.

When the time arrived, a Clydesdale in front and two flankers must have guessed my strategy as they boxed me in. I'd feign right: blocked; then left: the same. The big gun in front of me was practically standing while grinding out a measly 10 mph up the hill. With no other option but to go backwards, I slowed to 8mph to let them pass and then wiggled through for my escape.

This time somebody latched onto my wheel. This was a good because the two of us could work together to stay away. But after two pulls, my fellow protagonist fell off.

From there, I gave it my best time trial, but the pack closed once more about two miles from the finish. I sat up and positioned myself third in the group the pending sprint to the finish.

With 1K left to go, someone I never saw in the previous 31 miles came charging out of the pack and was pulling the Clydesdale with him. Oh, the irony. I jumped on their wheels. And then, another attacker came from the left. That's when my left calf muscle cramped. Game over. I coasted into fourth place.

The Clydesdale won.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

While there are lots of skills required to win a road race -- sprinting speed, strength, bike handling, strategy -- I've learned that the most important skill in a cat5 race is practicing patience.

For example, it took a tremendous amount of patience to pin the bib on the back of my kit even before the race started. I spent about ten minutes doing that while pre-race jitters would have had me pee. It was agony. The actual cat5 race itself requires being prudent until you can see the whites of the officials' eyes. That's the demarcation between where the 31.8 mile neutral roll out ends and a cat5 race really begins.

In the end, it really doesn't matter if you're out of shape or as strong as an ox. I'd be willing to bet that you could even polish off a six pack of Schlitz the night before and roll up to the starting line with confidence knowing that despite your troubles to pin your bib to the jersey, you still have nearly 32 miles before you're required to get bright.

Tons of fun. Glad I did it. Congratulations to the victors and to all who competed.

License Upgrade

My days sniping as a category 6 cyclist have come to an end. The upgrade papers, fresh off of my laser-jet printer, have officially welcomed me, and warmly I might add, into the rapidly growing sport of competitive cycling's 60,000+ members as licensed cat 5 rider #297434.

I know what you're thinking. And the answer is YES to getting #297434 tattooed on the back of my freshly shorn calf.

It's true. I've just committed $60 (greenbacks as they used to say) for an annual road/cross racing license, as well as another $25 to ride Old Yeller with, against, under, over and through -- if necessary -- other fellow cat 5'rs in the Norfolk Classic Road tomorrow morning.

Oh boy, I can't wait.

I may have to drink an extra glass of warm milk to help me sleep tonight.

Gryos e Giro

I backpacked through Europe 20 yrs ago with my brother Matt. We traveled on a 30 day EuRail pass and a shoestring budget of $25 a day (btw 2 of us), visiting nine countries while sleeping on the train, boat, in youth hostels (Pensiones in Italy) and park benches when necessary. Good God, that was fun.

At the beginning of the trip, we looked like typical tourists: big backpacks, sneakers, tee shirts, jeans, cameras, and such. In the end, we still looked like tourists but smelled more like gypsies.

One thing I learned is that people hate gypsies. I received this free education while renting a room from the sweetest Italian woman in Florence (Firenze). She could have been Munson's Grandma. (I don't have any Italian friends, otherwise I would have used their name in place of Munson's, but you get the point.) In Florence, we had two wonderful days of absorbing the best of the Machiavellian culture: works of art from Michelangelo, da Vinci, etc..., and enjoying great wines, breads and cheeses of Italy. If there is such a place in this world where wholesome goodness abounds, it's got to be there in Florence. Anyway, this sweet Italian woman asks us where we were off to next. I say "Rome". Suddenly, her face became dour and her eyes went inky black. Darkness gathered behind her as she sternly commanded us in Italian/English, "when you see those a-goddama gypsies, you, you -- pfff what you a say?!? -- punch 'em right in the face-a, and a-smacka the shit out of them-a!!" My knees were knocking with terror. Then, a Mediterranean breeze carried opera music through sun-drenched flowerpots hanging in the porticoes just a short distance from where David proudly stands. Grandma Munson's gentile smile returned once again as she bid us a warm farewell. Ah, now that's Firenze!!

I was reminded of this over the past weekend while watching the live universalsports.com feed of this year's Giro d'Italia. While Cavendish was about to make a sprint to the stage victory in Florence, the British (not the American boobs) commentator smartly remarked, "as this stage comes to a close in this remarkable city, there are likely countless American tourists here that have no idea that this race is even going on."

That statement is 100% true. I traveled in Italy in the month of May 1990 and had no idea about this road race. Heck, even two years ago, I was clueless to the Giro. Fred told me about it while on our way to joining (and meeting for the first time) Mike Munson, Bryan Redemske and Jon Randell for a group ride in Ponca Hills. That particular day was also the first day of the 2007 Tour de France. I remember this because Fred was looking forward to finishing the ride so he could make a Dagwood Bumstead sandwich and plop down in time to watch the "prologue" on his (pre 52" plasma flat-screen) CRT television. Prologue? I was confused. What did Julius Caesar have to do with it? Then he mentioned something about the Giro that had completed a few weeks before. Giro? Wasn't that something I ate in Greece right before they smashed a clay plate over my head? As he was opening the door to a world I was completely ignorant of, I kept my mouth shut and silently nodded while trying to muster up something better than a glazed look over my face. I'm quite sure I looked stupid, but I realized at that moment that wearing spandex shorts and riding a road bike was only the initiation into something bigger.

Did you see any of this past weekend's race? Incredible! Seven hours in the saddle in temps in the 90s and still have enough for a sprint finish?!? I'm amazed at the strength of mind and body required to complete one day, much less 21 stages, over three weeks.

Geez, I'm hungry. I wish I had King Kong Gyros. I've got some Kosher Dill pickles in the fridge that have my name on it. That'll do for now.

The Big Stick

When I was twelve, I enjoyed playing the game of golf. I was a short-game wiz. In fact, without being able to hit the driver (3 wood) more than 160 yards, I didn't even attempt to win the Low-Gross trophy in the junior league tournaments. Low-Net was occasionally within reach due to a high handicap. The real feather in my cap was in mastering how to win the tournament's Low-Putts trophy.

I was a realist who golfed to my strengths. Where others in my foursome would attempt to hit the green in two, I'd aim for the fringe in three or four. Yes, even five. That way, I could chip or putt the ball from the frog-hair as close to the cup as possible without having to actually count it as a putt. Then, nearly all of official my puts were "gimmies" (putter to grip length). Now that was strategy.

By the end of the round, you can imagine the carnage of pencil markings on my scorecard. Double, triple and quadruple bogeys were in abundance. Yet despite shooting well over 130, about 20 of those strokes were putts. I didn't care that my friends easily beat me. At the time, what mattered was that while they went home empty-handed, I won another Low-Putts paper-weight.

Ah, golf. So many games within the game itself.

After puberty, my long game improved significantly. That's when I realized that without having any money to actually bet on a round of golf, the saying, "drive for show, putt for dough" didn't make much sense. Hence, the "show" part became of greater importance.

To improve the long-ball, I took lessons and went to the range to work out the slice from the #1 big stick. I learned how to hit the three wood without a fade and spent hours on the two and three irons. To round it off, I even practiced the middle irons and spent some time maintaining in the sand and around the green. Near the end of that summer, the efforts were paying off: drives were straighter and longer; the medium and short games were solid. I had dropped 10 strokes off my handicap. Overall, it was all coming together.

Then Bertha came on the scene. Bertha was big. No, I'm not talking about my third grade school teacher who had enjoyed a few too many pastry strudels. What I'm talking about is Callaway's "Big Bertha".

Until that time, there were few gimmicks that lesser golfers took advantage of. Occasionally, you might catch somebody playing with a "Robinhood" ball with more dimples that'd make it fly farther. Outside of that, golf equipment was relatively equal. Bertha changed all of that.

For those unfamiliar, Big Bertha is golf's equivalent to the German heavy artillery gun bearing its name. Callaway marketing gurus developed this over-sized, extremely forgiving driver for people like me who suffered from #1 wood insecurities. It made tee-box monsters out of the most impotent of drivers.

My friend Jamie had one. He out-drove me by a jaw-dropping 30 yards the first time he was in my group. Even more, his classic hook was gone. In a short order, that club made believers out of skeptics and started appearing in other players' bags. My long game became non-existent once more.

As a result, I grew resentful of Big Bertha. You weren't going to see me with one of those wretched things. For one, I couldn't afford it on a $15/wk neighborhood lawn mowing business. But it was more than that. It was a matter of principle. I felt that if it was my lot in life was to suck at golf, so be it. Bertha wasn't going to sully my bag, baby.

My golf game quickly fell apart after Big Bertha's arrival. I'd shank the ball from the tee-box into the woods every time that chubber-clubber was within sight. Then, when some other kid mastered 18-putting his way to 140 and Low-Putts champ, I hung up the bag for good.

The fat lady had sung and it was over for golf and me.

Anyway, I thought of Big Bertha today after a recent UP Lunch Velo Club (UPLVC) ride. In the post locker room recap, Brant said that he'd be able to hang onto Shim's and my wheel if he replaced his compact crank with a carbon 53 tooth big ring/double.