Vuelta Ciclista del Uruguay: Stage 3

Arrival
Stage 1
Stage 2

Regardless of how we felt about the day's results, we still had a job to do: eat. To get food and fluids in us immediately after the finish, Amanda said she would be 100 meters beyond the finish, on the right, in the nearest shaded area. That sounds like an overly descriptive meeting place, but trying to find anybody in the throng and chaos at the end of a long race is a tall order.

Sure enough, there she was, hopping up and down shouting "Optum!" Once one or two riders find her, the rest just have to spot the orange jerseys.

As we knock back some Coke or other sugary beverage, some chocolate milk and cookies, and rehash the race, we must simultaneously fend off the crowd of people standing less than 2 feet away. It's like they've never seen cyclists before, and this new experience turns them into water bottle zombies. They can hear us speaking English, so they adopt the international "Can I have your water bottle?" pose: point at the bottle and look at you with their best impression of puppy-dog eyes. Then it becomes our job to shoot them down like a quail on the opening day of hunting season without sounding like selfish American jerks, because we really do need every last one of them.

By the end of the stage race, Amanda became a bottle-ninja. She'd have our bottles off our bike and in her backpack before we'd even stopped moving. One of her many daily tasks was to rinse each bottle out, soak them all in the tub with bleach, air them out, and then refill with drink mix/water/coke and cap them with the corresponding top so we knew what was in each.

This particular hotel was old school. No elevator, and the locks on the doors....

After showering/doing laundry and verifying that the internet connection was garbage, we set out for lunch, which would be a bit too far to walk. We stuffed all 6 of us, whose average height was probably 6', into the Geely. 2 in front, 4 in back. Even crammed next to each other we were nearly a foot too wide, so we had to offset our hips by turning sideways and offsetting ourselves, made more amusing my the fact that only one of the back doors worked. Then we set off in pursuit of food. The only obstacle: the hotel's driveway. Not willing to exit and re-stuff ourselves in there, we just committed....and left a 6-foot drag mark on the pavement with everyone watching. Americans, right?!

Lunch, nap, massage (stacking two squishy mattresses together and schooching to one side...a massage platform slightly firmer than a water bed), Steve Irwin (croikey!) with Spanish subtitles on a 15" TV, the walk of the unconnected (wandering around with laptop in hand, searching for a signal), and it was time for dinner.

This time we piled into the Geely while it was in the street with about 50 people laughing at us. When the door closed, they applauded.

At breakfast the following morning, I nearly lost my appetite when I looked at the ham and cheese. So I had a few pastries, some shortbread cookies, and knocked back a few glasses of the yogurt. Then I went back to my room to dunk a few oreos in dulce de leche. Nutrition is key in these long stage races.

The stage start was a few miles away at the old velodrome. We signed in, they started the neutral rollout, and we slowly headed over to the big park only a few blocks from the hotel where they stopped us so that we could start the race. Confused yet?

Anyways, the stage finish was 100 miles away, so to make the stage a bit longer we would do a handful of hotdog loops around the park. It was in the turnarounds that I first realized that hardly any of the other racers knew how to handle their bike through a corner...a symptom of 100 miles races that have 2 turns.

The race wasn't very interesting. I don't really even remember much of it...the usual attacks, the full-gas pace at every sprint/KOM (I've been saying KOM, but really they just picked out the biggest false flat in the area to put a line at the top of...most KOM sprints averaged 30+mph for over a minute).

4 hours after starting, it was time to get ready for another sprint finish. The distance markers weren't in quite the right spot with 10 and 5k to go, and we got to the front to start leading it out. Then the 3k sign came well after we'd expected it to, and we backed off the pace just a bit too much and got swarmed. By the time we made the last turn, I had been pinched off and was nearly at the back again, but at least I was on the inside.

The final turn was a fast left-hand sweeper, and I sprinted up the inside and took it hot. Remember how I said they can't turn well at speed? Well, they missed the apex by a long shot and I could've fit 3 of me side-by-side through that hole. I stayed on the gas and motored up to the front, just like stage 1. Ken hadn't lost any positioning because he's brilliant at negotiating a pack...I still had learning to do. Only Zirbel was with him, though, and as I reached the front he was ramping it up. I slid in front of him but surged too hard because I was too excited and gapped him. Ken jumped around and slotted onto my wheel.

I looked up and saw the big banner up ahead, just 500m away. I put everything I had into the pedals, and about 300m from the banner I started sprinting. The Brazilians' leadout train was right next to me. I kept going, kept going, and finally had nothing left. I looked between my legs and saw Ken's white shoes on my left side, so I faded right and dropped anchor to watch the sprint unfold. Just as I was going crosseyed, I made out the words on the banner.

"Bienvenidos a Paysandu"

Uncomprehending in my exhaustion-induced stupor, I just happened to see the plywood on the side of the road: "1K". Further up the road, the finish banner had just come into view.

I had burned my last match to dump our sprinter into the wind with a kilometer left to race. He was unable to get back in the draft with good position or fresh legs, and came up short in the sprint.

If we were upset after stage 2, we were livid after stage 3. We'd failed to assemble properly and take charge even though we could have, and we'd left Ken hanging out to dry. The tension was building.

Tomorrow:
-Okay, seriously. Are the missing bikes going to show up?
-Can we find our mojo again?
-What's a chivito?

Vuelta Ciclista del Uruguay: Stage 2

Arrival
Stage 1

While Ken was off getting his picture taken in the race's first yellow jersey, the rest of us rehydrated as best we could and set off for the hotel at Amanda's direction. After stashing the bikes in the underground parking garage for Bob, we found our rooms. Amanda had been busy--our race bags were waiting for us, along with sandwiches (sure, they were just ham and cheese, but she put mustard on them! A condiment!!!), bananas, chocolate milk, and cookies. To top it all off, this was a nice hotel. Morale was soaring.

My first task was to visit the very nice bathroom and let the demons out. I don't know what caused it, but it was not cool. And it would be another half hour before our big bags showed up and I could get some medicine.

In the meantime, I took the standard stage-race shower. What's that, you wonder? It's where you shower, then handwash your race clothes while you're in there. Don't even bother unpinning your numbers, just wash it all together, wring 'em out, and hang 'em up on the balcony. Then they're ready to go the next day!

The internet was even reasonably fast! Spanish Simpsons was on again, and the afternoon couldn't have been more relaxing, as we opened up Ken's victory presents like it was Christmas. Just from what I can remember from the 5 bags he brought back, there was a leather-encased cutting board and knife set, a bottle of Scotch, various household items like air-freshener and bug spray, and a few athletic t-shirts. Not a bad take.

Actually, the one thing that would have been nice was if we could've gotten the AC to work. While we sorted that out, we left the balcony door open to let the breeze in.

Before heading out for dinner, I meandered over to the grocery store to stock up on a few items. I filled my basket with cookies, a jar of dulce de leche, and other items that I would have no trouble getting down in the coming days. Also, I got a few bottles of gatorade and pedialite to rehydrate after my intestinal episode.

Dinner was predictable and uninteresting except for the part where Zwiz terrified a young boy on the walk over with a very creepy, very deep, "Hola..." The boy ran inside to fetch his dad, who hustled outside, only to then laugh at the harmless gringos walking along.

On the way back, Zirbel stopped at the grocery store for a carton of ice cream. He needed help finishing it, and I'm proud to say I jumped on that grenade. It's called being a teammate. You should try it sometime.

Before going to bed, we attacked the AC unit one more time with the only tools we had: safety pins and ink pens. I'm sure you're surprised to learn that our efforts were fruitless. So, we resigned ourselves to sleeping with the balcony door open, serenaded by the sounds of the street and its alarmingly loud scooters and stereo systems.

I awoke freezing cold, the AC blowing full-blast on me. Zirbel had grown weary of the noise outside and closed the balcony door. Wouldn't you know it, there was a tiny sensor on the door that triggers the AC.

It was another early wakeup for us, as we had a transfer before the stage started. The standard breakfast was growing old already, but I ate what I could and shuffled onto the bus for an hour of ipod time. I didn't know if my stomach issues had been resolved or were merely subdued as a result of the immodium. All was quiet on the front lines for the time being.

We rode the bus, the bikes were carefully leaned against one another in the bed of an empty dumptruck.

Stage 2, 103 miles. We were excited. As the team with yellow, we had to be extremely careful not to be caught out of any move with more than a few guys in it. The one thing we could not do this early in a 10-day race is to miss the move and be forced to ride the front. So we were all amped up, ready to wreck shop again.

Ken was extremely anxious, can't you tell? Painters tape on our stems marked the sprint/KOM points and other key notes

So the racing started, and then the most bizarre thing in all my racing experiences happened.

There were a few attacks, but nothing was getting away. Then, with nary a word, the entire front half of the field settled into a giant rotating paceline. I'm not kidding, 40 riders pulling through steadily. Riders from every team except ours. There was a gentle breeze from the right, so there was a slight echelon covering most of the road.

We didn't know what to make of it, and were afraid to talk about it and jinx it. The kilometers ticked off one at a time, with nobody off the front. A sprint point was coming up and the attacks started a few kilometers out, but immediately afterward the field wordlessly settled into its rotation again.

Like I said, bizarre.

I made a game of staying in the sweet spot as long as possible. Where might the sweet spot be? I shall try to paint you a word-picture.

Picture if you can a very large rotating paceline, fading gently from right to left, rotating in a clockwise direction. On the upwind side of that rotation, there is always a stream of guys that don't want to take a pull but want to be near the front. So they'll tuck in as close as possible to the rotation while skirting up near the front, effectively getting 75% of a draft. With nowhere to go once reaching the front, they inevitably begin falling back when they are passed by more riders on the upwind side doing the same thing.

Basically, they are making a wrong-direction rotation on the upwind side of the actual paceline, while trying to stay out of the rotation. Pretty ironic, huh?

So, the sweet spot: Right in the middle of the counter-direction rotation. By staying a little bit further back and holding the advancing riders on your upwind side, you become sandwiched between the advancing and falling lines, but staying in the same relative place in the peloton. It's pretty entertaining. I even made a picture of it in Paint because I have that much time on my hands.

We continued on like this until mile/kilometer 60/100, then just as inexplicably the race went nuts with attacking. It became very painful very suddenly. The field broke up a few times and then chased back together (in the gutter). My legs were feeling a bit flat, but not terrible. Ken had been caught behind one of the splits, so we worked hard to get him back up there.

As the final kilometers approached, the field was all together. All was calm for the time being as teams prepared for the sprint. I was working on getting to the front to set up the leadout when the 3K to go sign caught me off guard. Just then the field went full-gas and guys in front of me let go of the wheel in the gutter, and I never got up there. I chased all out, but ended up losing 40-some seconds in the final few K as nobody would help me chase.

The guys set up their leadout, but Zirbel was caught by surprise by a median in the final turn. He managed to get over it safely, but at the expense of one of our precious HED wheels. Ken got 6th without even sprinting...he had missed the 1K to go sign and didn't think the big banner was the finish banner. To be fair, the 1K to go sign was a piece of plywood with a spraypainted '1K' on it, propped up at the side of the road. And the 500, 200m to go 'signs' were simply words spraypainted on the ground. It wouldn't be the last time that one of us missed those signs.

There wasn't a lot to be excited about that time. Ken had lost the yellow jersey to bonus seconds at the finish. We were down a tubular wheel without backups. The bikes were still missing. I had lost time due to inattentiveness.

But tomorrow was another day, and we were determined to get that bitter taste out of our mouths.

Tomorrow:
-Will the bikes show up?
-Will I think of more euphemisms for stomach issues?
-Will I create more ridiculous drawings in Paint?
-Can we get back into our groove and start winning again?
-Will we turn to the Geely to cheer us up?

Wohlberg overwhelms the Geely with awesomeness

Vuelta Ciclista del Uruguay: Stage 1

New to the party? Get caught up with yesterday's post.

Breakfast the next morning, besides being nearly 45 minutes later than the posted signs said, was--you guessed it--a repeat of the previous day. The little ham and cheese sammies weren't too filling, but I was more interested in the dulce de leche (Caramel for breakfast?! Don't mind if I do.) and the yogurt. After all, it's a 10-day race and getting just a little behind on calories can have huge repercussions later.

Our more astute readers caught the foreshadowing in that last sentence.

Anyways, the bikes had not arrived from the airport yet. Our 'guide' was Carlos, a man strikingly similar to my late Grandfather, so that was a bit bizarre for me. He had grown up in Uruguay and knew everyone, and had secured for Soladay a more suitable loaner bike to race on should the bikes not show up in time.

We headed out for some openers to get the legs going again, while previewing the TT course for later in the week. Aside from blowing snot everywhere, I felt alright.

When it came time for our post-ride massages, we faced our first logistical challenge: Amanda's massage table was among the missing luggage. Nothing slows Amanda down, though, and we had our massages on a long folding table with a bench cushion atop it.

Amanda had to joke about it during the massage, "Just think, someday when you're old and wrinkled, you'll be telling your grandkids about that time in Uruguay..."

"...that the airlines left behind our luggage..."

"...and you got a massage on a folding table..."

"...with a pew cushion for padding...."

"....in the hotel hallway because the rooms were too cramped...."

"...with the automatic lights that kept turning off...."

"...and the Colombian director that awkwardly complimented your tanlines...."

Dinner was okay. Dessert was great. Who doesn't like flan and its flobbery wobbliness?

A quick shot of the sunset and it was off to bed after enjoying some Spanish Simpsons to brush up some more. I was enthusiastic about [re]learning another language.

I stole this photo from Zirbel

5:30ish wakeup...and my sinus issues had mysteriously disappeared. We had to have our bags downstairs before breakfast so they could meet us at the day's finish. I used the early wakeup to sneak some time on the internet--we had realized the day before that all the  racers in the hotel crashed the internet pretty easily, and the best bet for a connection was first thing, before everyone got up.

Breakfast...same story, just more chaotic. I managed to eat a good deal, as I was motivated for the race.  Before heading back to the room, we snagged our Clif products for the day from Amanda's roller bag so she could put it on the truck. This was tricky...Amanda only packed exactly as much race food as we would need for the race, and half of it was in the missing bike bags. We were operating under the impression that the stuff would show up in time.

Another logistical issue: we had no backup bikes, and only 2 sets of spare wheels in case of flats, one of which Bob was borrowing from another team.

We had a contingency plan in place for the bikes to find us should they show up, since we would be traversing the country over the next few days. Fingers crossed.

Another logistical issue: race bags. Our big luggage was on the truck, but we still had our backpacks with a change of clothes so we didn't spend all day in our chamois. Normally, dealing with race bags is not an issue. But when this is your caravan vehicle, space is a concern:

Wohlberg being all kinds of awesome in the Geely

Thankfully, Amanda made friends with the Brazilian team (FunVic) and would ride with them to each day's finish in their team van, along with our race bags.

Before rolling to the start of my longest race ever, I made the morning visit to the restroom. Everything was fine. Jersey back on, start walking, immediately flip a u-turn and get back in there because everything is no longer fine. Uh-oh.  I'd been careful! No fresh fruits/veggies, and only bottled water! And my medicine was in my big luggage. Mental note: medicine goes in the race bag from now on.

The start was the usual affair...roll to sign in, stay hydrated, and wait around. Stage 1 was 121 miles from Montevideo to Trinidad.

Speaking of 'stay hydrated,' our final and most delicate logistical issue: water bottles. Want to guess where half of them were? For the time being, we only had 55 water bottles. It's Uruguay, so it's warm. Figure on 6 bottles/day/rider for 6 riders, and you have a logistical issue. We couldn't just get more bottles, either. The only bottles available down there are the little ones with the pop-tops that you get for free in goodie bags at Fun-Run 5K's, that rattle around in the bottle cages. We, with our big-mouth screw-top bottles, were the envy of everyone.

Also, there were no feed zones. 1000 miles of racing, zero feed zones. All feeding would be done from the caravan, which would mean dozens and dozens of runs of fetching the empties from teammates before heading back to the car to get more bottles. And yes, that got tedious pretty quickly.

Time to race!

On the way out of town, we crossed a few railroad tracks...and dodged a lot of small water bottles that had been sent skidding.

My first thought when racing started? "Racing down here is much louder than in the States!" We had a dozen police motorcycles giving us a rolling enclosure, and their sirens were always on.

I hadn't given much thought to the race route, but it was quickly apparent what was in store for us: highways. The average road in Uruguay is pretty rough, so the only suitable roads for racing were highways. 121 miles, 3 turns.

Any racer can predict the style of racing on a road that is straight, flat, and wider than the peloton. It was very aggressive and very fast. The wind was gentle, so it was just attack after attack. There were two pro teams racing: us and Movistar Continental. Anytime we moved, riders were on us like flies. The accordion effect was the name of the game--as an attack was caught, the front riders would sit up and the back would come blasting by. With only 120 racers, you could find yourself at the back in a hurry because the field inverted so quickly. Conversely, you could also get to the front quickly.

It was just fun racing, plain and simple. Constant attacking, staying in the 53x11 all the time. As the team with the largest aggregate weight and height in the race, we were biding our time for some serious crosswind sections. The wind was blowing gently from the side, but not enough to do much damage. That is, until the Sprints or 'KOMs' came up. Then the field would go full-gas in the gutter for a few kilometers. I kept getting caught off guard when they would do this, and I got split off 2 separate times.

The first time, I worked hard to chase back on, but soon realized that these guys were absolutely cutthroat in the gutters. In America, it's tough to get an echelon going in the crosswind. You move over, they follow, but you cannot get them to pull through. In Uruguay, they won't even follow you out into the wind because they think that means you're blown. Only after you're well off the back will they work together at all.

The second time, I sat in and let the other goobers pull us back on. Also, I didn't have much choice. My stomach had recently notified me that it would no longer be accepting donations. Any time I went hard, things got...uh...intestinally uncomfortable. So I had to wait for that to settle down.

The break that Ken was in finally came back (he had somehow snuck away to bridge without any of the other teams seeing him), and we decided to do the blow-by leadout with 1.5K to go. That involves getting ourselves lined up on the outside, but hanging back until the last minute before exploding to the front for one all-out effort.

I got pinched off from the guys in the chaos with 3K to go. I had to get back up there, they needed me. But I was stuck in the middle of the pack, which gave me one option: the long way. I had to back off and work my way to the edge of the pack, slowly falling backwards. Finally I was on the outside, at the very back, with 2K to go. The guys were already taking the front without me, and I had to get there immediately so they wouldn't drop Ken off too soon and leave him hanging. I blasted up the side of the pack straight to the front, sliding in front of Zwiz, and set about using my last match of the day to get them to the last corner, a K from the finish. Before the corner, Zwiz took over, powered through, and then Zirbel gave Ken a monster pull to drop him off with 250m to go.

For those that have never done it, giving a proper all-out leadout is miserable when you're also trying to finish on same time.... That sprint took forever, and I just managed to stay with the lead group to the finish.

I rolled around for a few minutes trying to find out the outcome, fending off all the children asking for my water bottles. It was hard to be concerned about anything else when I finally found out:

First Optum UCI win in 2012

Ken and Carlos

It was a tiring, but rewarding day

Tomorrow:
-What will become of my stomach issues?
-Will the bikes show up?
-Will SuperKen make it 2-for-2 for the Americans?
-Does the ham and cheese start tasting better?

Vuelta Ciclista del Uruguay: Arrival

Now, after many months of delay, I bring you a story too wild to drop on you all at once. Instead, I'll spread it out over the coming weeks, one stage at time.

-----------

With the exception of a day in the Bahamas on a Disney cruise and a day trip to B.C.--both in middle school--I had never left the country before. I had just finished 4 days of racing at Redlands, and here I was on my way to Uruguay for 10 more days of racing.

My feelings vacillated between unbridled excitement and subdued anxiety. Racing out of the US is precisely what I had been hoping for for some time now, but I am my mama's boy. The unknown scares me, and I was about to get a heaping serving of new experiences abroad.

Thankfully I wasn't going in completely blind--Bob, the team mechanic, as well as Zwiz and Reid, had all done the race before.  Having been warned, I prepared the best I could.  A couple boxes of granola bars and $10 of Pepto and Immodium later, I was ready for Uruguay.  I hoped I was, anyways.

The morning began early, and there wasn't enough room in the shuttle to the airport. I sat on the wheel well, quietly hoping my sniffle--Zirbel had come down with one, too--was only allergies irritating my sinuses.

The stack of luggage amassed by 6 riders, a director, mechanic, and soigneur was a veritable mountain.

After checking the first few bikes, the team was informed that only 6 bikes were for sure getting on the plane, which would be completely full.  After assigning priority to the race bikes, it was decided that the TT and backup bikes would go on last, as they wouldn't be needed for a few days.  My TT bike had slipped through, though, and we just had to hope it wasn't at the expense of a more important bike.

At 23 years old, the first leg of the flight to San Salvador was my first experience of being surrounded by a language I couldn't understand.  Sure, there were those 4 years of Spanish way back in high school, but if I remembered any of it I would at best be able to read signs and menus.  My ears perked up and mind began racing every time I heard a familiar word.  My two-week crash course in Spanish had just begun.

During the next layover in Lima, I wandered about, taking in all the hubbub around me.  In search of food, I found a little deli kiosk and picked out a ham and cheese wrap.  They accepted US$, but I had to understand the price in spanish.  No problem, though--the in-flight movie had been "In Time", in which there was lots of numbers. And I, the international travel noob, had watched it in Spanish because I didn't know there was an english audio channel.  On the bright side, I remembered my spanish numbers now!

Sitting down to enjoy my $6 wrap, I was dismayed to find it nothing more than ham and mozzarella tightly wrapped in a tortilla.  After two bites, I was bored with it, but I choked it down nonetheless, oblivious to the foreshadowing of this first meal abroad.

The third and final leg into Montevideo was a redeye flight on deja-vu airlines.  Another flight full of passengers speaking a language I didn't understand, the same in-flight food, and the same in-flight movie.  I simply tried to sleep, but my nose had been switched to full-flow mode.  I wasn't sick, though.  I wasn't in denial, either, I'll have you know.

After landing in Montevideo, Uruguay at 3am and getting through customs, our intrepid crew set up camp at the carousels.  It was like Christmas morning, only we smelled worse and weren't sure our presents would show up.

The carousel buzzed, and everyone craned their necks, hoping to see good news paraded by on the conveyor belt.

The bags started coming out, followed soon after by the bikes.  The tally stopped 6 short.  With nothing left to do, the missing bag claims were filed and everyone climbed aboard the bus headed for the lush Kolping Hotel Escuela.

It was nearly 5am by then--24 hours of travel.  Bordering on sleep-deprived delirium (I can hardly sleep on planes), I popped my headphones in--you couldn't carry on a conversation over the engine spewing noise and fumes--and took in the new country around me.

As the bus driver straddled the lanes through town (they were merely suggestions), I entertained thoughts of Jason Bourne taking refuge in the dilapidated apartments lining the boulevard.  Yes, I certainly needed sleep.

The hotel parking lot was gravel.  Half of the lot was outside the gate, along the street. The other half--where 12 more cars could fit in theory--was more like a grass-covered garden.  Even at 6 am, the streets were busy as our crew shuttled the bikes up to the hotel.

The inner parking lot at the hotel

Finally, keys in hand, we weary travelers were destined for sleep.  My first lesson in personal space outside of the US came when the elevator door opened. I thought I'd mistakenly called the dumbwaiter.  There was scarcely room for 3 people with bags, and only then if they were bumping shoulders.

We could do nothing besides chuckle when the room's door swung open to reveal our living quarters.  On the other side of the bathroom wall began the first of four twin-size beds, the last of which ended against the far wall, slightly underneath the windowsill.  The common fear was that this would prove not to be the least comfy hotel of the race...

The next 3 hours were passed in a fitful sleep for me, dreaming of a long day of travel with some sort of sinus ailment, only to end up sleeping on a small bed with loud traffic outside. Then the alarm went off.

Breakfast was a modest affair.  The selection included ham and cheese sandwiches, of the pre-assembled and make-your-own varieties.  Lest you conjure up an American affectation of the ham-and-cheese, let's be clear: this was a slice of ham and a slice of mozzarella between two slices of white bread.

"A bit bland," I thought, "but I can handle this."  Naivete is cute, right?

Also available were shortbread cookies--some with dulce de leche--and some sort of liquid yogurt that was actually good.  I had a glass of that, then another.

With breakfast completed, it was time to ride.  Bob had worked through the morning with no sleep and had the bikes built, even securing a loaner for Soladay, as his race bike was among those missing.

We pointed ourselves towards the beachfront a couple miles away and wove our way through traffic to get there. I was pretty entertained by the organized chaos that is their traffic system. The road was 4 lanes wide at points, but without any markings...so sometimes it was 5 lanes and sometimes 4. Traffic wasn't very fast, but it had a good flow to it. What killed me, however, was the low-quality fuel everyone was using. The exhaust fumes wreaked havoc with my sinuses and I couldn't stop sneezing.

We ventured into the downtown square to see the giant statues of military men on horseback. As we rolled back down to the beach to conclude our spin, I sat up to take a picture.

Zwiz caught up to me and said, "Hey, you should probably slow down before going through the intersections..."

"Why? We don't have stop signs..." I replied, confused.

"Yeah, and neither does cross-traffic." I put my camera away and began slowing just as a car blasted through the next intersection. It's an interesting method of traffic-control, to say the least.

After returning to the hotel and getting cleaned up, we headed over to a cafe where the race would be providing our meals when in Montevideo. Most of the other teams had not yet arrived, so we had lunch alone. The race had hired a local chef that hosted the cooking segments on the morning news to prepare our meals for our two-week stay. We were pretty excited about that. The meals started off on a good note, at least, with some potato salad, half a roasted chicken each, and ice cream bars for dessert.

Morale was pretty good at that point. We were ready to destroy some South American racing.

Tomorrow:
Will my sinus issues mysteriously disappear?
Will the food continue to pleasantly surprise?
Will the missing bikes show up?
Will the team be able to hold their own in the races?

Nobody said it would be easy

I rolled across the finish line and coasted to my team car. Wordlessly, I slowed to a stop and dismounted, handing the spare bike--it wasn't even mine--to Jelly, our mechanic. I squeezed into the back seat of the car with a grimace, just trying to get inside before the dam burst.

Wohlberg, my director, got in and started the car, speechless except for the conciliatory, "Sorry, buddy."

"It just keeps happening..." was my response, choked out between sobs. The tears rolled off my face onto my first NRC yellow jersey as I tried to sink lower in the seat while keeping my bloody knees off the upholstery. The emotional rollercoaster was simply too much to handle. It was barely 18 hours after my first professional win, the highlight of my year.

A poor performance resulting in the loss of yellow would have been difficult enough to handle--I hadn't even gotten the opportunity to try. Instead, I was taken down in a large pileup that surprised no one at the start of the stage--the third such pileup in as many years--and came out of it with the worst injuries.

For the third time this year, Wohlberg and I headed off to the hospital. In my mind, it was merely a formality, a reassurance that I'd only sprained my wrist again and jammed my thumb badly. I convinced myself of this all the way through the x-rays, right up until the doc walked in with the results.

Broken wrist, broken thumb. 4-6 weeks. I was numb mentally. I couldn't believe I was going to have to start over again. Oh, and I needed surgery. On both. The hits just kept coming.

After a conversation with my mom in which I broke down yet again, we decided that I'd fly home for surgery because I would need a lot of help for a while with both hands out of commission.

A day later, I was home. At noon the next day, I was in surgery with a highly-recommended hand surgeon in Dallas, shortly after learning that it would likely be 12 weeks before I was cleared to race. My season was over.

Almost 2 weeks later, my hands are 75% functional. I can't use my right thumb or either wrist, so there's still a lot that I need help with. I rode my TT bike on the trainer yesterday...I'll be doing that a lot for a while.

What I'm trying hardest at, though, is to not allow myself to feel depressed. It's tough. After a trying year to say the least--fighting either sickness, injury, or fatigue since March--I had finally come back. All I did was rest and recover, get healthy again. For 2 weeks I'd done nothing but some consistent, moderate riding with some intensity here and there. And I'd done a couple of little races. Then my first big race with the team back, boom, my first win. I knew the form of my life was soon on its way, because every day I swung my leg over the bike I was better than the day before. And the races I'd been looking forward to all year were still to come. I was going to race the Tour of Utah--a race at the highest level America offers--in just a few weeks, and would spend September racing in Belgium.

The next day, my season was over. The rug had been yanked right out from under me, and I was heartbroken.

Now, all I can do is look ahead to next year. There may be some racing for me late this year, but I can't count on that.

I've been asked multiple times this year, "Are you sure this is what you want to do?" I suppose it's a good thing that I won the day before the crash, as I knew without a doubt the answer. That feeling after I won the prologue? Simply awesome. I want that again.

Seconds after Mancebo crossed the line, my time untouched.

So when I wonder how I'm going to overcome this challenge, I realize how trivial it really is. My dad has defeated setback after setback in his battle against cancer and come out on top, his faith guiding him through each challenge. God can certainly handle a couple of busted hands, I just have to stay out of His way.

Motivation and morale, and a big ol' nasty crash

I've been planning on catching up with race reports for quite a while now, and now that I have some serious time on my hands to kill, I will. But first, we're going to skip ahead to the present. And to do that, we must go back, even before the point that I last left off. Confused yet?

My base training period this past winter was more miles than I've ever done before, at a faster pace than before. For the first time, I did 3 straight 5-hour, 100 mile days. I thought that was impressive. I went to team camp in February well prepared, and it's a good thing. In the 9 days before my PCH crash, I completed the biggest, most-intense block of my life of 600+ miles. My recovery after camp was a double-recovery: recovery from training, and recovery from the crash.

The next block was Merco--4 days of racing (including another crash) followed by a hard 3-day block of Tour of California recon. I'd never done 7 straight days of intensity before. Another personal best.

Next was Redlands, which is a hard race to begin with, and my short bout of food sickness on day 2 didn't help.

After Redlands, I got the first stamp on my passport when I traveled to Uruguay for a 10-day stage race covering 1000 miles. The racing started 4 days after Redlands--that's 14 days of racing in 18 days. My previous longest race was 5 days. I made it through 6 days before the floor disappeared from under me. I had been sick for a day early on, and then day 8 marked the beginning of 5 days of toilet destruction. So my return to America was another double-recovery: recovery from sickness, and recovery from the biggest block of racing I'd ever undertaken.

Once healthy again, it was time for the Joe Martin-Gila double: 9 days of racing in 11 days. I had a couple of good days, but I really struggled with the heat at Gila, and I could tell my top-end fitness had been sliding since Uruguay.

After two days in Fort Collins, I was off to Guatemala for an 8-day race, ranging from the stifling heat at sea-level to the cold, thin air at 10,000 feet. I had a couple of good days, but some really bad days as well. I got sick with just 2 days left in the trip, a chest cough with oodles of mucus.

So after racing 17 days out of 25 (I think my number of race days for the year was almost 50 by this point), I again went back to Fort Collins to recover from both stage racing and sickness. I was improving slowly--the question was whether I'd be healthy in time for USPRO championships the next weekend. The answer was a resounding 'no'. It's the most pathetic I've ever been on a bike. The best power I could manage on Paris Mountain in the road race (after withdrawing from the TT two days earlier) is a far cry from what I was doing as a cat-2.

So I went back to try this recovery thing again. 7 days completely off the bike. 5-day course of antibiotics to get healthy again. Another 7 days of easy riding, with a little effort thrown in to test the legs. Things were looking up. I knew I wasn't where I used to be fitness-wise, but I could tell that I was fresh for the first time in months and that the legs would come around quickly. Tour de Beauce would be a tough race, but I would get stronger as the race went on.

Stages 1 and 2 went as expected: strong at the beginning, and fading towards the end of the tough courses. That is, until everything went pear-shaped with just 20km remaining in stage 2.

The final KOM of the day was a very steep pitch that saw us crawling along in the 28, and after finally making it to the descent our group was only 20 seconds or so behind the lead group. We were doing a hard rotation down the hill to try and slingshot back on when they hit the next riser, going 40+ mph.

Crashes are always weird. Everything goes into slow motion at the time, but all you take away from it is a series of snapshots.

The rider directly in front of me was out of the saddle when a weird series of bumps he didn't expect threw him forward onto the bars. He swerved violently multiple times, back and forth, over the next fraction of a second. I had just enough time to think, "Please save it" before he lay sprawled and tumbling on the ground in front of me. I was trapped on the right side of the road, at the edge of the gravel shoulder. The snapshot in time when it finally went wrong is not one that I brought back with me.

I remember being above Craig, and then the next shot is the pavement right in front my face, chest smashing into the ground--not hard enough to knock the wind from me, but enough to force an "ooooof" out. Somehow I kept my face off the ground. I was completely stretched out, the entire front of my body contacting the ground at once.

The next series of shots includes my arms shielding my face and head as I tumbled repeatedly on my side. I remember wondering if I would ever stop rolling over, thinking--while still in motion--man, we were going really fast.


It finally stopped. I was sitting up, facing backwards in the shoulder, and my bike had come to rest in my lap. For a brief second, I thought I was okay. Then I saw the hole in my knee looking back at me. The sinking disappointment and fear I felt at that moment could only be expressed with one word.

"Fuuuuuudddddgggge," I breathed out slowly. Only I didn't say 'fudge'. I said the word, the mother of all curse words. The 'F, dash, dash, dash' word. (Sorry, I just had to include that little monologue there.)

Now would be a good time to set the stage for you, and rewind a couple hundred meters. Whenever families hear the race is passing by their house, they often come out to watch us fly by. This particular family was standing in their driveway, next to their mailbox when Craig and I took flight.

Craig came to a stop face-down, unconscious, in their driveway at their feet. I was 50 feet further down.

During my self-assessment, I took notice of the fact that Craig wasn't moving, and he was on his face. Finally he came to and started moving. He rolled over and started wailing and moaning, just as the ambulance that was following the race pulled up. The EMTs checked that I wasn't seriously injured and then went to work stabilizing Craig.

During that time, my leg was not actually mine. Suddenly it was this cadaver leg attached to me, and I was morbidly fascinated with the big hole beneath my kneecap, and the whiteness that could only be bone at the bottom of it. I picked out the rocks that I saw.

Eventually Craig and I left for the hospital in the ambulance, and we had the same conversation 4 times. He'd hit his head, then slid on his face for a while and had road rash all over his body. After a bit of waiting at the hospital, they got me fixed up and on my way.

Here I am, 3 days later, and my knee looks like a grapefruit that a zombie attacked. I can bend it a little bit, and can hobble to meals alright. I could have jumped on an early flight back, but flying would be suffering, and I'd just be headed back to a life filled with stairs and smoke and food that I pay for, so no rush there.

So it looks like I've finally got some serious rest on my hands.

It's been a roller coaster year so far for sure. A building year. I don't wish for a second that I hadn't done all those races. I'm sure that I'll reap those rewards later this year, and definitely next year. It's just been a tough year. I've pushed my body to limits it's never before known, then told it to recover while sick and injured multiple times. I've never ridden in the gruppetto before, and this year I've become familiar with it. Mulitple DNFs. Every one sucks. And yet I've still had good results in there, and learned how to be the best teammate possible when my own form is lacking. And I've done it all while traveling the country, continent, and world. And yet I've been disappointed at meeting my own goals for the season, and missing outright my target races of TOC and USPRO TT. I've got a lot of making up to do in the next 4 months.

Rest assured, I will finally get this knee better. I will be very well rested. And I'm going to attack the second half of this season with a vengeance. Mediocrity is not acceptable.

Mother's [Birth]Day

For the past 4 years, my mother has had to spend her special day worrying about her son(s) racing in National Championships.  This year is different.  This year I'm racing in Guatemala.  She's a trooper, though!

My mom's birthday is just before Mother's day, so she gets a double celebration. I think she's 32 years old now. Or 29? You certainly can't tell by looking at her, because somehow the woman doesn't age even after all the stress Shane and I put her through.

back when she was the tallest among us

Before I continue, I just want to say that it's kind of bizarre to think, "Yeah, this post is definitely going to make my mom cry.... Welp, better get typing!"

As I call up my mental file titled 'Memories with Mom', there's a fast montage that runs behind my eyes, and I've got to decide which ones you want to read about.

My whole life, her obvious goal has been to make me into a domesticated, well-balanced, educated, and polite human being.  Shane and I naturally resisted most of these efforts, but she still somehow succeeded.  We had weekly chores, manners training at the dinner table, cooking lessons....

I'm embarrassed to think of how many arguments we've had over doing our chores.  We really didn't have much to do, but I think we fought back on principle. I remember, sometime after moving to McKinney, convincing Shane that he was better at cleaning the bathrooms than me--and that I was better at vacuuming--so that I could avoid bathroom duty. I can't believe my mother let me get away with that.  I think it took Shane about a month to realize he'd gotten the bum end of that deal.

My parents wanted Shane and me to have nice things, but they weren't going to just buy them for us. If we wanted money, we were going to earn it. So, my mom started creating work for us to do, so that she would have a reason to give us money.  It started with pulling weeds in the yard.  A bucket of weeds earned $.50. Yes, 50 cents.  As we got older and needed more money to buy our toys, she invented bigger jobs for us.  It seemed there was always something to be done in the yard.  It was only fair to pay us the normal hourly wage for lawn work, so we racked up the bucks.  Nowadays, it seems the living room needs to be painted a new color every other year.

I remember the first cooking lesson I got from my mom as a kid: grilled-cheese sandwich.  She then taught me how to make cookie dough.  Although, truth be told, I think that was as much for her benefit as mine. I remember her saying, "Your grandmother would never let me, but the dough is my favorite part!" Shane and I would later take this to the extreme, making full batches of cookie dough with no intention of it ever reaching the oven.

My mom is quick to tell you that she enjoys baking--not so much cooking. She makes a mean apple pie, and always set aside the extra pie crust dough for munching. Any time she made any type of batter, she'd ask, "Do you want to lick the beaters? Or the bowl?" to which I would laughingly reply to the obviously-rhetorical question, "Do I want to lick the beaters and the bowl...." To which she would respond, "Or the bowl. I get one of them!"

She would take sick pleasure in singing her special wake-up song to me and Shane, despite our squeals of protest, and get it stuck in our heads for the day.

I already gave a background in how she got me started with piano, and I mentioned the various duets that we did.  Those duets are the best memories that my mother and I share, bar none. We got to share something that we both really enjoyed.  Of all the duets that we did, my favorite was the piano-flute duet of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic", which we performed as an offertory at church during the Memorial Day service.  Not only was the song really fun to play, but it held special significance on that day.

Today is a day to honor the most selfless woman the world has ever known. I suppose her weed-pulling obsession is also for her benefit, but we learned many years ago that when she says, "I'm going out to work in the yard," that our search radius is 3-houses wide should we need to find her. Here is an actual conversation I had with her just the other week:

Me: "How was your day? Relaxing?"
Her: "Yes, I worked out in the yard pulling weeds."
Me: "Our weeds, or neighbors' weeds?"
Her: "Just our weeds!"
Me: "...."
Her: "Well, and the weeds that were right next to our yard."
Me. "...."
Her: "Okay, I spent the majority of my time in our yard."

Ever since my dad was diagnosed with cancer, she has been going nonstop.  Whether taking care of him when he was really sick, putting pounds back on him after he was sick, researching medicines and treatments, or anything else, she has been amazing.

I wish I could make her breakfast tomorrow, but she's in good hands.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom! I hope you find the time to take a much-deserved nap.