Ginormous crosswinds + bazillion rollers + big Iowa farm boys = the most brutally hard race I have done.
“When in doubt, eat potatoes” was a famous slogan of this man – a sentiment that I fully agree with -, so what better way to celebrate the legacy of our 31st president than head to his birthplace, West Branch, IA for Hooverfest, where amongst the funnel cake, World Hooverball championships and deep fried Snickers bars there was also a bike race taking place– namely the Iowa State Road Race Championships. I predicted my race would mirror the Hoover presidency – spectacular crash, followed by a downward spiral into great depression, then stagnation, resignation to one’s fate and spectacular defeat. Let’s see how it would turn out.
As usual, not enough sleep, a late start and 2.5 hour drive conspired to leave me just enough time to register, pin on my number and set up my bike. Headed for th eline after a quick spin to check my brakes etc. The official gave us our orders – centerline rule, 2 laps of a 27 mile circuit, don’t cross the yellow line for the sprint – and we were off.
There was a sense of nervous energy in the pack of forty-odd riders ; this was the State Champs so most riders would have been targetting this for a peak performance – I wasn’t, I knew it was going to be tough but still had been putting in a hard block of training for CX season – I was hoping to wing it a bit; hide away until I was good and warmed up and then see what would happen.
There was no large team representation, maybe three riders each from DMOS, North Iowa Spin, Rasmussen and Bike Tech plus a smattering of others from allover the state and a few out-of staters.
They sure breed ‘em big in Iowa, from the gun a group of seven or eight riders formed at the front and put the hammer down. I quickly found myself at the back, hoping that the nervous energy would dissipate, but it was not to be. Directly out of town there’s an 8 mile straight stretch with roller after roller, all ravaged by a brutally swirling crosswind increasing in strength. Every roller we hit, a new guy would go to the front and punch it, seemingly unaffected by the wind – sure are some extremely strong country boys in Iowa. Pretty soon the rear of the pack lost its formation and it was every man for himself. Try as I might, I was struggling to find any draft and was getting guttered on the white line. We’d hit a hill and I’d be able to make up some ground, the pack would reform in a more organized fashion and then get strung out by the next rider punching it at the front. I simply wasn’t ready for the neverending surges and was soon
feeling the pain before even warming up. It was sone of the situations where the guy on the inside would be cruising along at 100-150 watts but the guy on the outside, in the wind, would be over threshold at over 300 watts. This situation rarely continues because the guys on the outside try to move to the inside and it ends up becoming a strung-out paceline of strung-out riders, all fighting for some shelter.
Pretty soon I saw the pattern of doom forming, a head group of 8 or so riders, clumped together and rotating well, a couple of paired riders hanging off their draft and a long line of single riders fighting for wheels, trying to close gaps and guttered on the white line. I have been told that this has been referred to as a Mexican Paceline, but, as that’s probably not PC, I’m going to call it an English Paceline. I know from bitter experience that when an English paceline occurs, gaps will occur, someone won’t be bale to close it and the pack will split – I’ve been on the wrong end of this a couple of times and I’m not going to let that happen again.
Only one thing for it – get to the front. I yell at my teammate that it’s too dangerous back here and to grab my wheel., pull out into the wind, bury my head and kick it up for all I’m worth. It’s brutally hard out here, I’m well into anaerobic and making bugger-all progress. This hurts. I manage to pull forward 10 or 15 places and then have to give up. Got no more to give and the head of the English paceline is still out of reach, but I believe this effort is what saved me. Some where in the next couple of miles the pack did split and about 40% of the pack got dropped. I got gapped maybe two dozen times but fought back on each time. I think I was the last rider to make it.
After 8 miles of this torture, we turn East for a couple of miles, the pace increases but there’s a tailwind and the pack stays together, then a right turn for another 8 miles into rolling hills and crosswind. I hang on at he tail of the pack, suffering like a dog. This time we’re guttered on the yellow line and it’s more of the same. Each respite I try to move forward a few places in the wind and then try to hang on – somehow I succeed. I don’t know how I managed it. My legs hurt, my ass hurts, my brain hurts. My quads especially, are screaming. My stomach is about to convulse. Luckily the hills on this stretch are longer and I’m able to move up a bit on the downhills and then climb to mid-pack on the uphills.
Eventually we hit the right hand turn for the 5 mile headwind drag into town. The pack slows down and everybody takes it easy for ten minutes, taking the chance to eat and drink and chat a bit. I spend the first 5 minutes dry-retching. It’s been the hardest hour I have ever had on the bike – a miracle that I survived. We averaged over 25 MPH in the first hour, for a cat 4 race - that’s fast, for a race in a crosswind it’s a phenomenally hard pace. It’s a mystery to me how so many others hung on. Eventually I recover somewhat and am bale to drink some fluids, although eating is still out of the question.
We hit the feedzone, roll through town and turn for the crosswind section again. Plenty more surges go down, but this time I’m pretty careful about moving up aggressively whenever the pace drops and even go to the front a few times. I know that I’ve already burned two boxes of matches and have nothing left, but manage to fake it without too many problems as we hit the short tailwind section. Turn again into the second crosswind, more surges, English paceline forms again. Nothing in the legs, I get gapped on the first surge but battle back on. Second surge and I’m off the back, nothing left to give – the damage had been done on the first lap. Two guys behind me pull through and drag me back on. Surge three and I’m off the back. I’m the very last guy to be dropped. I work together with Ryan from DMOS, who catches me from behind and we trade pulls in the hope that a miracle will occur and we catch back on. The pack does actually slow down
considerably and we come tantalizingly close to them a couple of times but never close enough to make a bridging effort worthwhile. Dropped on the very last surge of the race!
We keep them in view at 30-60 secs gap until they make the right turn for the last five miles into town. That’s when I cracked and the last few miles uphill inot the headwind were a long and lonely death march. Ryan has a bit more in the tank and I can’t keep up with him – he presses on for a strong finish but the officials miss him crossing the line a couple of minutes behind and he’s listed as DNF – very unfair to him.
I struggle on and manage to raise a feeble sprint for show at the line. Collapse into the grass on the side and contemplate retirement for a couple of minutes. I drink a fresh bottle, stand up and actually don’t feel too bad. My quads are still screaming but I’ve been in a lot worse shape. Maybe I am getting fitter after all.
It’s about 10 minutes or so before the rest of the Cat 4 riders start to straggle in, in various states of distress. Only a few DNFs - for such a brutal race that’s very surprising. Teammate Tim finished his race strong – just finishing deserves respect.
The race ended up with the pack of twenty-odd riders slowing to snails pace for the last few headwind miles and then a drag race for the line into the uphill headwind. A pity I couldn’t hang on as I think I would have had enough for some decent power for a couple of minutes at the end. The top ten guys were way strong but maybe a top 15 was within reach. Such is life.
Positioning at the end was crucial (see pic) with the centerline rule in force you needed to be well-positioned for the sprint or take some crazy risks passing in the gravel. The guy who won is a multiple World champion speed skater, Jeannie Longo passed me once on a Hill Climb, but this is the first time I’ve race with a World champion of any discipline – that’s kind of cool.
Looking back, I try to see what I could have done better. The roads were like glass, so my decision to run 28mm tires didn’t work out. If I’d forced myself to eat and drink more maybe I could have had the extra five watts needed to hang on. But the big difference was simply getting hung, drawn and quartered in the first half hour. Lesson learned, if you expect a crosswind, get a good night’s sleep and warm up plenty beforehand. The hammer will always drop from the gun and those who aren’t prepared will pay for it.
All in all, it was a great race. Roads were perfect, very little traffic, safe and well-marshalled, flawless registration and really cheap to boot. It would be great if there was a way to move the finish line so that there could be a full width sprint – but you can’t have everything.
We all brought families and they had a great time at Hooverfest and wandering around West Branch. Found cheap eats and even got good Hefeweizen beer for a ridiculous price of $1.75 each.
One of the hardest, and most enjoyable races there is in the Midwest. We’ll be back next year.
