There's a white plastic box on my kitchen counter that's showing a bike race going on in Belgium right this moment.
Yes, the video is terrible. Yes, it keeps quitting and I have to reboot the page. No, I don't understand a word of Flemish (which actually kind of adds to the charm).
But there's a white plastic box on my kitchen counter that's showing a bike race going on in Belgium right this moment.
Isn't that cool?
Showing posts with label Racing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Racing. Show all posts
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Monday, April 27, 2009
People, people!
A follow-up on yesterday's Quabbin Road Race report. I've been in touch with two friends (who will go anonymous) who race on the local scene, and both emphatically confirmed my take in that post on the unpleasant vibe of the local road racing scene. One of them said that he disliked the attitude of local road racers so much that he tries to race as many mountain bike events as he can (because the attitude is more relaxed, according to him).
The other friend was actually in the Quabbin race. In a chase group, about halfway around the course, he heard another guy literally shouting at a teammate, "I didn't bring you here to suck wheels all day! Get out there and execute the plan!" My friend then playfully said something like, "You all heard it -- the plan is being executed!" Instead of taking a hint and lightening up, the first guy simply shouted at my friend, "Shut up!" Nice.
Now here's the good part: Which category was this guy in? Pro-1-2? Nope. Cat 3, maybe? Nope. He was a 45+. I would have hoped that by that age (i.e., my age) one would have garnered a morsel of wisdom or self-posession. As my friend put it, "It's not like we're competing for spots on the Olympic team."
Stories like this do nothing to tempt me to try racing. Dang, I already take myself way too seriously!
The other friend was actually in the Quabbin race. In a chase group, about halfway around the course, he heard another guy literally shouting at a teammate, "I didn't bring you here to suck wheels all day! Get out there and execute the plan!" My friend then playfully said something like, "You all heard it -- the plan is being executed!" Instead of taking a hint and lightening up, the first guy simply shouted at my friend, "Shut up!" Nice.
Now here's the good part: Which category was this guy in? Pro-1-2? Nope. Cat 3, maybe? Nope. He was a 45+. I would have hoped that by that age (i.e., my age) one would have garnered a morsel of wisdom or self-posession. As my friend put it, "It's not like we're competing for spots on the Olympic team."
Stories like this do nothing to tempt me to try racing. Dang, I already take myself way too seriously!
Sunday, April 26, 2009
A Visit to the Quabbin Road Race
It would have been a little hard for me to come up with an excuse not to go observe the Quabbin Road Race today. It was 75 degrees and sunny, and the finish line was seven miles from my house. I haven’t seen a lot of bike racing up close and personal, so I stopped by to absorb what I could and enjoy the day. You certainly can’t find a better race venue; miles of water and trees as far as the eye can see, and not a house or business in sight.
Upon arrival, there were maybe seven spectators in the area. Five or so folks manned the finish line tent, situated at the top of the hill that makes up the Quabbin park loop. About a quarter mile up another hill was the starting line and podium, and parking area. I’ve never seen so many cars in the Quabbin park since I moved here. But there was hardly a soul around; everyone was out on the course, giving the area a weird “abandoned disaster area” feeling.
The fans along the road were quite nice, and I struck up a couple of enjoyable conversations. There was a little bit of finish line dramatics, but only one category actually featured a field sprint. The reason for the mellow scene was a finish at the top of a one-mile, roughly 6% climb, after 61 or so miles of hammering. I saw so many tongues hanging out I thought I was at a dog race.
In a humorous turn, the pro field got split up about three-quarters of the way around the 62-mile course. The break went the right way, and the field went the wrong way, which resulted in a slightly ironic situation: The first people across the line for the day were racing for positions eight through 10. Positions one through seven rolled in about five minutes behind them.
Blasting across the line after a hard 62 miles of rollers and hills.
(Look closely to see the fist in the air.)
Now, I don’t like to report this part, but I think I have to. Interactions with organizers at the finishing tent were sometimes pretty unpleasant, even surly. A half hour before any finishers rolled in, when I was practically the only fan there, I asked for a quick update. Folks in the tent mainly rolled their eyes. Eventually, I got about half of the story. I heard roughly the same from another fan.
An hour later, as the lower categories were rolling in, it occurred to me: Okay, they didn’t have a loudspeaker, and therefore of course no race announcer… but the folks in the tent weren’t even bothering to say anything to anyone about what was going on. Something simple in a loud voice, like, “The 35+ field is approaching the final hill, led by a seven-man break” would have been neighborly and useful. And not too difficult; they were getting constant updates via radio. Help like this was all too rare, and was clearly an afterthought. Fans usually didn’t know what field was currently rolling across the line, or who was behind them just out of sight, so there was no anticipation building, no excitement.
An exciting breakaway finish by... someone... from, uh... some category.
In fairness, they had a lot to do today, and they had a split field heading the wrong direction. Putting on a race in general is probably a very challenging thing to do. They did a reasonable job for the racers overall. I think the general problem is, they think that’s all they need to focus on.
Finally, I got further confirmation of the unpleasant attitude of higher category racers. One of them was hanging out at the booth, and when there were just a few of us around, I said a couple of things to him, and he responded quickly and evasively, as if it was physically painful for him to speak to me. Yet he was being quite expansive and friendly with the organizer. The pro riders were equally detached, with an air of desperate intensity hanging over them. As far as I could tell, not one of them was actually having a good time. Some of the cat fours, on the other hand, were chatting amiably with each other as they rolled across the line. Some of them even playfully sprinted against each other at the last moment, laughing like two ten-year-olds on their way back from the corner store. Now that’s the way I’d want to race.
All in all, I’m glad I went. I learned a lot. It was a beautiful morning. I gather it’s a pretty challenging, good race; it’s long, and there’s a lot of big rollers and some long stretches of climbing. I enjoyed the triumph on the face of some of the finishers, and the camaraderie of some of the more humble ones.
Neutral support dudes hang out and complain of mistreatment by racers.
Upon arrival, there were maybe seven spectators in the area. Five or so folks manned the finish line tent, situated at the top of the hill that makes up the Quabbin park loop. About a quarter mile up another hill was the starting line and podium, and parking area. I’ve never seen so many cars in the Quabbin park since I moved here. But there was hardly a soul around; everyone was out on the course, giving the area a weird “abandoned disaster area” feeling.
The fans along the road were quite nice, and I struck up a couple of enjoyable conversations. There was a little bit of finish line dramatics, but only one category actually featured a field sprint. The reason for the mellow scene was a finish at the top of a one-mile, roughly 6% climb, after 61 or so miles of hammering. I saw so many tongues hanging out I thought I was at a dog race.
In a humorous turn, the pro field got split up about three-quarters of the way around the 62-mile course. The break went the right way, and the field went the wrong way, which resulted in a slightly ironic situation: The first people across the line for the day were racing for positions eight through 10. Positions one through seven rolled in about five minutes behind them.
Blasting across the line after a hard 62 miles of rollers and hills.(Look closely to see the fist in the air.)
Now, I don’t like to report this part, but I think I have to. Interactions with organizers at the finishing tent were sometimes pretty unpleasant, even surly. A half hour before any finishers rolled in, when I was practically the only fan there, I asked for a quick update. Folks in the tent mainly rolled their eyes. Eventually, I got about half of the story. I heard roughly the same from another fan.
An hour later, as the lower categories were rolling in, it occurred to me: Okay, they didn’t have a loudspeaker, and therefore of course no race announcer… but the folks in the tent weren’t even bothering to say anything to anyone about what was going on. Something simple in a loud voice, like, “The 35+ field is approaching the final hill, led by a seven-man break” would have been neighborly and useful. And not too difficult; they were getting constant updates via radio. Help like this was all too rare, and was clearly an afterthought. Fans usually didn’t know what field was currently rolling across the line, or who was behind them just out of sight, so there was no anticipation building, no excitement.
An exciting breakaway finish by... someone... from, uh... some category.In fairness, they had a lot to do today, and they had a split field heading the wrong direction. Putting on a race in general is probably a very challenging thing to do. They did a reasonable job for the racers overall. I think the general problem is, they think that’s all they need to focus on.
Finally, I got further confirmation of the unpleasant attitude of higher category racers. One of them was hanging out at the booth, and when there were just a few of us around, I said a couple of things to him, and he responded quickly and evasively, as if it was physically painful for him to speak to me. Yet he was being quite expansive and friendly with the organizer. The pro riders were equally detached, with an air of desperate intensity hanging over them. As far as I could tell, not one of them was actually having a good time. Some of the cat fours, on the other hand, were chatting amiably with each other as they rolled across the line. Some of them even playfully sprinted against each other at the last moment, laughing like two ten-year-olds on their way back from the corner store. Now that’s the way I’d want to race.
All in all, I’m glad I went. I learned a lot. It was a beautiful morning. I gather it’s a pretty challenging, good race; it’s long, and there’s a lot of big rollers and some long stretches of climbing. I enjoyed the triumph on the face of some of the finishers, and the camaraderie of some of the more humble ones.
Neutral support dudes hang out and complain of mistreatment by racers.Friday, January 2, 2009
If You Don't Go When You Want to Go...
"Riders ready..."I have a personal New Year's resolution this year, but I am also going to have lots of them for cycling, as well. Some of them are pretty straight-up training goals, like adhering to a fully periodized riding program (per Joe Friel) for the first time.
Others are a little more incendiary. I plan to participate in my first cycling race in 2009. That's a pretty exciting one, init?
The thing that makes me most nervous about that one isn't the idea of losing, or winning, or crashing, or even having no #$?%&! idea what I'm doing. (Those do make me nervous, by the way.) The most scary thing about it is that I'll like it.
I already spend quite a lot of time training on my bike, or fixing my bike, or buying stuff for my bike -- or thinking about training, fixing or buying stuff for my bike. I have a somewhat obsessive personality, and if I jump into this whole culture around bike racing, I could be done for. There's so much to learn, so many ways to improve, so many events to try, books to read, goodies to buy.
Yipe!I've been waffling about this a long time. I've gone over and over the (perfectly sound) reasons why I shouldn't try racing, things like "I'll be 45 in a couple months, I'm older and more tired and more physically fragile and more busy, and involved in a really good marriage I'd like to keep that way, blah blah blah blah blah..."
Yeah, right. And then I look at those perfectly functional guys in their 50s and 60s still rippin' up the field every weekend. And I know in my secret little black heart that I am envious of them. End of whining.
Then there are other reasons, too, some of them strong, most of them not. All of them have buzzed around in my head for a year or more.
On the other hand... I can't stop thinking about it.
My wife and I were watching a fun little soap-bubble of a movie last night called, "The Fastest Indian in the World." Anthony Hopkins plays a quirky old gearhead whose life consists of upgrading his beloved 40-year-old Indian motorcycle. (Hmm, constant absorption in a two-wheeled vehicle... sound familiar?) His dearest dream is to travel with it from his native New Zealand to Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah, to see if he can break the land speed record. It won't surprise you that a heart-warming series of events allows him to go. As he's leaving, he turns to a young boy, a neighbor who's worked his way into the old man's heart. He winks at the boy and spits out a homespun Kiwi aphorism: "If you don't go when you want to go, when you do go, you'll find you've gone."
My wife and I were watching a fun little soap-bubble of a movie last night called, "The Fastest Indian in the World." Anthony Hopkins plays a quirky old gearhead whose life consists of upgrading his beloved 40-year-old Indian motorcycle. (Hmm, constant absorption in a two-wheeled vehicle... sound familiar?) His dearest dream is to travel with it from his native New Zealand to Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah, to see if he can break the land speed record. It won't surprise you that a heart-warming series of events allows him to go. As he's leaving, he turns to a young boy, a neighbor who's worked his way into the old man's heart. He winks at the boy and spits out a homespun Kiwi aphorism: "If you don't go when you want to go, when you do go, you'll find you've gone."
Corny as it was, it hit the inner nail right on the head.
If I continue to flip-flop about racing, the excuses I mentioned will get more true every year. Or, I could admit to myself that my constant picking at this question tells me there's something in there for me. If I love it -- or even just can't let go of it -- then there's got to be something in it custom-made for me to learn from, grow by, chew on. Of such stuff is the righteous life made. And if I don't like it, at least the question will be settled. But I have to try it.
I talked it over with my wife, to make sure I had her support. I made certain promises (e.g., not to disappear from her life, not to get too whiny if I get hurt or injured, that kind of thing) and the deal is on. (She's a real good'un.)
I talked it over with my wife, to make sure I had her support. I made certain promises (e.g., not to disappear from her life, not to get too whiny if I get hurt or injured, that kind of thing) and the deal is on. (She's a real good'un.)
So, there's a big one for Aught-nine. I guarantee you you'll be hearing more about this. Stay tuned.
"Go!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)