I want to try something a little different in my blog entry today, not the usual review of the weekends’ races, although my musing will likely touch on those somewhere along the line, but a bit of explanation for those that sometimes wonder why we get so much pleasure from so much pain. I’ll apologize in advance for Larry’s sake that this entry is longer than he prefers, but I will also take heed of his comment to me a while back that no approval is really necessary to post to our blog. I’ll also take advantage of the suggestion that it is sometimes better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

As I was driving home from the Madera Stage Race today, missing my old pal Mick, who for the past couple of years has always been with me on this trek home where we tend to bask in the joy of team victory and review in somewhat intricate detail, the weekend’s races, I began to ponder why. Why I decided so late in my athletic life to ride a bike again after not having ridden one since I was fifteen, and then never for anything but youthful travel until a car was allowed? Why, even though I started today in 29th place, I was so excited to race? Why, after suffering the pain that goes into bike racing when you put your heart into it, I felt so good about the day’s race and those of the weekend too? Why do I do this and why will I do it for as long as my body allows?

The drive home was about three hours and, unless someone had snuck some psychedelic substance into my Cytomax bottle, I was tripping naturally on these questions and I came up with an answer, perhaps one of many, but one that may explain to those who don’t understand why we do it.

My main competitive endeavor as a youth and early adulthood was ice hockey. I played for several very good teams, maybe even a great team or two that won several prestigious championships. I loved hockey. It was a team game. I loved my teammates, we always had each other’s backs. We won together and of course, lost together. We couldn’t have done it without each other. There is something that feels really good when you win as a team, much better than just winning by yourself, at least for me.

Hockey, like cycling, is a game with injuries. Mine eventually caught up with me and made it so I couldn’t play the game anymore. I missed it, I missed my teammates.

Today I remembered why I started cycling. I couldn’t play hockey anymore and my friend convinced me to buy a mountain bike when I was about 35 years old and we went riding together, just for fun. Pretty soon there were three or four more guys who would come for our Saturday morning rides, rain or shine. We’d stop somewhere down in the woods and play hacky sack for a while, jump back on our bikes and ride home. We were like kids playing ball hockey on the street every day after school until it was too dark or our Moms’ yelled at us to get in the house for dinner. Who needs dinner when you’re having so much fun! I was having fun with my friends but this time it was on bikes, the connection was starting to take hold.

Fast forward to today. It hurt out there. We tried really hard to steal the race and the weekend from the Stanley boys. Larry would go. Steve would go. Kevin would go. Billy would go. Heck, I even gave it a go. And then we’d do it again and again. Not quite the way we wanted it to go, but in the end, Billy finished it off and made us all feel really good. We won as a team. The same thing happened on Saturday in the crit. We have our own pocket rocket (for those of you old time hockey fans, you’ll catch the double entendre), his name is Deano and he finished it off for the team and made us all feel really good.

For me, bike racing, like hockey satisfies a craving I have for being part of a team. Our team has fantastic bike racers but they’re also great guys and are willing to give up something from themselves for the good of the team. But unlike hockey, only one guy crosses the finish line first. On our team, Billy crossed the line first today, but it felt like I was right there with him. We make each other feel that way and I love it. Someday my body will probably take this away from me again, but until it does, like one of my old hockey teammates used to say, play it like a man, love it like a boy.

Well Done Rabo!! Except loosing with 3/8 is Fail.

Instinct

What is it that tells a rider when to make that attack to finish off the group and ride in solo? How did he or she know that NOW was the time to go?

Answer: Instinct.

How do you get "instinct"? By racing a lot. By making a lot of attacks that went absolutely nowhere. By making attacks that caused counter attacks that got you dropped! Kind of embarrassing! And even by occasionally making the perfect attack at the perfect time and riding off to a glorious victory seen only by a couple of officials standing on the side of the road. Ah, it's a glamorous sport. :-)

My point here is that instinct is something that you get by RACING A LOT.

Over time you may start hearing a voice in your head that screams "GO NOW!". Listen to that voice. I have won races by listening to that voice. I have lost races by ignoring that voice and "being smart". In fact one time I ignored that voice because well, "I was smart". Not two seconds later another rider who obviously heard the same voice made "my move" and won the race. 1986. 23 years ago and I still remember it. Listen to that voice. Don't listen to the voice that says "my legs hurt". Or the one that says "They will just chase me down". Because the others are hearing those voices too. Those voices will make them hesitate. "Maybe Mike will go after him and I can follow." The first step to losing... Next thing you know the gap is 10 seconds and growing. Game over, here's a nice parting gift for being a good sport.

I even remember watching a Tour stage in 1986. Four guys away at the end of a transitional stage between the mountains. The attacks started, and after a few counter attacks there was a lull. You could see that they were ALL gassed, but I heard the voice. "For the love of God, somebody needs to attack right now and win this race!" About two seconds later, Niki Rüttimann, one of Lemond's La Vie Claire team mates countered and won solo. He was hurting, but he listened to his voice. The good voice. The others listened to the other voices... I still remember that stage 23 years later. I remember that it was Niki Rüttimann who listened to his voice. I have no idea who the other three guys were.

Beautiful, I found it on YouTube. Listen closely at about 1:25 into the clip. Do you hear the voice?



"Being smart" is a good thing. But sometimes over analyzing will get you into trouble. It was certainly not "smart" when Chris Phipps attacked on the downhill at the UCSC RR in 2006 on the last lap. I even remember thinking "that's not very smart". Attacking on downhills never works! Well, Chris was listening to his voice that day and as we all tried to get the other guy to chase, Chris was on his way to a nice solo win. Instinct.

In summary:

Race a lot. Then race some more. If you are either young enough or old enough to do multiple groups at criteriums, do it.

It's good to be smart and tactical and plan tactics in races. But sometimes you need to just listen to that voice. It may say some things that sound insane. But it knows things that you don't know. It knows when it's time to go.

Bye.