District TT

First, the (limited by my perspective) overview:

Mick Hellman is the 2007 Elite District TT champ. Because that's how he rolls.
Jeff Angermann is a quadruplet. Read on for more details.
Kevin Metcalfe is back. He's sooooooo back. Be afraid.
Rob Anderson reminds me of Kent Bostick. No, seriously.
I swear, I used to be good at time trials. But now I'm just full of excuses.

Now for the details:

Ahhh, the District time trial. It has always brutalized the tender part of me that sits on the saddle, and today was no exception. It usually also brutalizes my fragile ego, and today was, once again, no exception. 40 kilometers of pain. A test of manhood. That crucial moment where you find it in yourself to keep the hammer down for the full duration, or you talk yourself out of it. And of course, let's not forget that precious time spent diddling around afterward on the gravel patch near the start, waiting for the results to be posted. Did you man up? Did you ride fast, did you rock the clock? Then you can stand tall, you can look people in the eye, you can modestly (with bashfully downcast eyes) say that you're "going pretty well right now, I guess". You can patiently listen to the excuses of your fellow competitors, stroke their damaged egos, all the while knowing - and knowing that they know - that you are better than them. A better rider. A better person. Go ahead, admit it. You'll drive home with your head held high, satisfied, eager for your next chance to impress your strength on the whimpering, huddled masses - now they know. And I won't let them forget it.

Did you not have it? Did your body quit? No, there is no such thing. If your legs were tired, it's because your mind made you train more than you should have. If you were weak, it's because your mind - your pathetic mind - Oh, how you hate it! - kept you off the bike when you should have been riding. If you crumbled, it was - once again - a cavitation of the mind. It truly is all in your head. But I digress - let's discuss what it means with respect to the gravel patch - the one with the port-a-potties on it - yes, those port-a-potties, the ones that are mounted on a trailer, the ones that rock and sway whenever some poor soul clambers into or out of one of them, in the throes of some massive pre-race gastro-intestinal explosion. It means that you have to come up with some good excuses without seeming to be making excuses. This is an art that few have mastered. "Actually, I felt really good. I rode 500 miles last week, but I don't think that mattered." But it also means that you can't be proud of yourself as a human being. You have to hover over the results, looking for some shred of consolation, clinging to a 2 second victory over some other rider with the desperation of a drowning man. At least I beat all of the 60 year olds. You have to drive home, remembering your silly, childish goals, knowing that you're a fool. A failure. An embarrassment to the uniform.

On a gusty June morning in the Sierra valley, Mick Hellman was a man. Kevin Metcalfe was a man. Jeff Angermann was a man (four men, actually). Rob Anderson was a man. This reporter, on the other hand, was not.

Mick gutted out a victory (53:12) over James Mattis in the Elite category, Jeff (53:15) generously allowed Brian Bosch a one-second advantage in the M35-39, and Kevin Metcalfe rocketed to a 52:20, the second fastest time overall, good for the win in the M45-49. Rob Anderson clocked a 55:00 in a ruthlessly Bostickian display of will. The conditions were relatively horrific, with a ripping headwind on the return leg that crushed the spirits of many, and led to some astonishing outbound/inbound split differentials - far more than the usual minute or so. I stammered to Kev that I was "on track for about a 50 flat at the turnaround", to which he laughingly replied that he rode a 23:20 for the first 20 km, adding later that "I am so on - SO on - for Putah Creek." Twist the knife, Kev. Go ahead and twist it. Just remember that I didn't wear shoe covers today.

What is it about Jeff Angermann that makes it seem like there must be four of him? Jeff, I'm sorry if this uncloaks the mystery, but I've learned all four of your identities:

1) Georg Balzac Angermann IV - postdoctoral fellow, soon-to-be faculty member
2) Wade Tarquin Angermann - biodiesel-driving, environmentally responsible alternative energy researcher
3) Vin Spanky Angermann - sports performance clinic, coach
4) Jeff Erik Angermann - husband, father, rider

Most of us live a 168 hour week. Jeff's week, if you add up all of his four incarnations' activities, is 672 hours long. No joke. And he's impeccably well-mannered.

In other news, I was able to impress Craig Roemer (victim of a mechanical failure, soon to be avenged at Tour de Nez and Nevada City) with my wide-ranging oenological knowledge: I've had both red and white wine, and I can tell the difference. Sure, there's the occasional rosé, and that tends to throw me into a bit of confusion, but for the most part, the secret is simple: red and white wine are different colors. Craig already knew that, but I can see why - it is, after all, his job.

Yours in crushing and absolute defeat,
Dejectedly stuffing myself full of chocolate chips and butter,
I remain,

Dave Bailey