Worn out.

Today marks the 8th day that I have not gone for a bike ride. Why, you might wonder? Well, since base training commenced last Thanksgiving, these ol' legs have accumulated 10,000 miles. So, yeah, I needed some time off. Truly, I needed it after Tour of California, but I just had to push through the best I could and help the team.

After returning from Portugal, I had a bit of time to adjust to the altitude and sharpen up for Redlands. It went pretty well, I must admit. I got my first win of the year in the opening time trial, and held on to yellow until the last 15 minutes of the Sunset Loop Road race. Mancebo just proved to be too much to handle that day.

As disappointed as I was to lose the race, we did pretty well to snag 2nd and 3rd overall (Zirbel) without even fielding a full squad at the race. We would be prepared for the next race.

That race was the Joe Martin Stage Race. Going into it, we knew that we could win the whole thing. And I intended to do just that--my parents would be there to watch me race on the road for the first time in years. My legs were great, but I still made a couple of tactical mistakes--including one whopper in the second road race--and had to be bailed out by my team. They delivered, so I had to, too. Once again I went into the final stage with a mere 5 second lead on Mancebo, but this time we had him under wraps. The guys buried themselves to keep the pace high the whole day and mow down every attack except for Mancebo; he was my sole focus the whole day. In the end, I won my first NRC stage race (crossing off one of my 3 season goals) in front of my parents. For the full significance of this win, you've got to read my Dad's blog about the race: http://canceron2wheels.blogspot.com/2013/04/when-dreams-intersect.html

Eric and Meatball enduring another Kenda team attack after riding on the front on gross day

Hiding in my team bubble in the crit

Mancebo had a very short leash indeed

That afternoon we began the first leg of our trip over to Silver City for the Tour of the Gila. With the form I had, I had thoughts about winning. As it turned out, the environment had other plans. On the first stage, I was across the mesa on the Mogollon climb without ever really suffering. Two seconds later I was completely blown without warning. I couldn't breathe at all. Stage 2 was never terribly difficult, but in the time trial I was great for first 15 minutes and then completely fell apart again. My nose was running constantly, and other racers were having similar problems. In the crit, the most I helped the team all day was moving over to let Eric take Cando's wheel for the sprint. I started the Gila Monster but was immediately in the hurt box, unable to breathe again. For the second year in a row, I DNF'ed, pulling out in the first feed zone. I knew I had stellar form, that I wasn't overcooked from the race season. I had to keep reminding myself that something external to me was the cause, and to brush it off--next on the calendar was the Tour of California.

Across the mesa on Mogollon at the front, completely comfortable. Surprise collapse imminent.

Even with a bad second half, I managed 11th in the TT on my sweet new bike

Half an hour before the Tour of California started, we were still debating whether I should go for the KOM jersey or GC. That decision wasn't made until I missed the break just a few miles in. Welp, that's settled, then! As it turned out, I surpassed even our optimistic expectations and finished the race in 10th overall. A learning experience, for sure. Even with an okay time trial, I could have finished in 5th or 6th if I hadn't made some mistakes on the wind-blown stage 5 in which the race exploded. We also missed an opportunity for a stage win due to miscommunication between me and Cando on stage 1. Such an amazing race, though, and I think I'll be hearing about my finish on stage 2 for quite a while. Also, climbing with the lead group through the thousands of spectators on Mount Diablo was one of the coolest experiences ever.

Finishing 6th in the sweltering 112 degrees of Palm Springs on stage 2

I even got a bit crazy in the TT and changed to my road bike for the finish climb

Next after TOC was USPRO Nationals. My legs felt good going into the time trial (another of my season goals) and I had a really good ride but ended up just 5 seconds from the podium. Big Z crushed it to avenge his suffering in California's heat. I can't wait to see him in his stars-and-bars skinsuit on his custom painted bike! In the road race, I saw just how overcooked I was from such an exciting spring so far. I had to shift focus mid-race and work for Cando, as it was obvious I would not make the front group the final time up the climb. In the end, our chase group was unable to rejoin the leaders and we just rode it in to the finish.

Somehow the photogs always catch me when I lift my head to take a peek up the road

From Tallahassee, we moved on to Baltimore for a week of rest (for me) before undertaking the iconic Philly Cycling Classic. I was disappointed to need rest so badly, as the riding in the Northeast is phenomenal.

Doing well at Philly is entirely about being in position for the climb up Manayunk Wall each lap. The first few laps I was about 40 riders back every time, but made the front group each time up to make sure we had representation there. Zirbel, Zwiz, Marsh, and Friedman were on full attack mode, riding in every break of the day up the road. Ken was helping me, Cando, and Jesse with positioning in the runup to the wall. Being unfamiliar with the course, though, it took me a few laps to get a handle on how the fight for position goes, and I kept getting pinched off the train and pushed back before the bottleneck at the bottom. The penultimate time up, I was already pretty smoked and knew I was not the guy for the final sprint up. So I jumped into leadout mode for Jesse and Cando, taking the front with about 3-4km to go. Jesse had a great sprint up, managing second on the day and Big Z was rewarded with his efforts off the front all day with the sprint jersey. With my leadout completed, I rode wheelies up the wall to the finish. Let me tell you, drunken fans love wheelies!

At the base of the wall, the field's been whittled down quite a bit in the 120 mile race

Come on ride that train!

 After Philly, I immediately went into recover mode again, as I still had one more race between me and summer break--arguably the most important race on our calendar because it's in our sponsors' hometown, the Nature Valley Grand Prix. We took a hit squad to the race with the sole purpose of winning the GC. Even despite my fading legs, I managed 7th in the TT and we stacked the GC with the whole team in the top 12. I had fun in the St. Paul crit because I actually raced it! I've always loved crits, but fighting for position all the time without ever racing is miserable. In Canon Falls, we unleashed the fury on Jelly Belly and Friedman took yellow with Zwiz and Jesse right up there in mix as well. The crit in uptown the next night was awesome because we just rode the front the whole time. We were going hard the whole night, but I could manage it because it was at or below threshold, and I never had to make any hard accelerations. In the Menomonie road race, I got to ride the front all day along with Zirbel and Creed. I had to sag all of the climbs, but then immediately went back up to the front for some more tempo work to keep the field together for Friedman. On the final stage in Stillwater, I managed to ride the front for about half of the race before my legs finally gave out and I got to watch Friedman win from the sidelines. Of course, I had to ride a few wheelies up the wall before pulling out. I made it to summer break!

Eddy Merckx TT in the pouring rain

Crits are so much easier when you control the front

A long day of tempo

So like I said, it's been 8 days since I last rode a bike, and I'm gonna take at least one more day off. Do I really need that much rest? Well, let me tell ya...

I had the opportunity, between Philly and Nature Valley, to do some physiological testing at UC Denver with the esteemed Dr. Inigo San Millan, and we got some really interesting data. At lower and middle intensities, we learned that I do a very good job of burning fat for fuel. Once the power was cranked up, though, I fell apart pretty quickly. The most telling bit was that when I finally cracked (much earlier than I should have, mind you), the concentration of lactic acid in my muscles was actually very low. That means that my muscles literally had a lower threshold for pain before shutting down. All this data was confirmed with my power data in races--I was completely fine at lower and middle intensities, but (no joke) I was missing 10% of my usual power on the climbs. Yeah, I needed rest.

Oh, and for the record, I do not like the breathing apparatus on the testing machine. It was my first time testing with one, and I was not prepared. There's no resistance on the intake side of the mask, but there is a bit of backpressure when you exhale. That bit of pressure made my mind think that there was a hand on my face and I wouldn't be able to inhale again. So for the first ten minutes, my mind was doing this:

<Inhale> This mask isn't too bad, but it's not very comfortable.
<Exhale> There's something covering my mouth, I'm gonna die!
<Inhale> Phew, I can breathe, I guess I'll be okay.
<Exhale> There's something covering my mouth, I'm gonna die!

In my time off, I've enjoyed doing anything and everything that doesn't involve bikes. I've also had time to digest all the excitement that this spring has brought with it--multiple cyclingnews and velonews articles, and most recently I was featured in ROAD magazine (buy a copy!).  The attention did not stop there, and big news is in the works in the near future, I'm pleased to say.

With that, you can consider yourself up to date on my activities! Now then, time to tune up my mountain bike so it will be ready when I am...there is plenty of racing still to come, and it's about time to get back to work.

Portugal!

Well, I'm back in Colorado after a successful trip to Portugal! I'm just gonna give you snippets of observations and experiences from the trip, and many photos. Enjoy!

I had a blast racing over there and the country was great. The food was delicious, and every town we stopped in (or bounced through on cobbled streets) was beautiful, and the general public loves to watch bike racing.

The language was hard to understand--written Portuguese looks fairly similar to Spanish, so I was able to discern many of the words. Spoken, though, the language sounds like a German or Dutch imitating Spanish. More than a few times, the language barrier had us scrambling to communicate, and we found ourselves speaking broken Spanish in the hopes that maybe it would work. It didn't.

Trans-Atlantic flights are long, but they go a lot faster when your personal TV works. The Life of Pi was a great movie.

We didn't get to do a ton of touristy stuff, but a few of our easy rides found us duck-walking through castles in our bike shoes. Castles are awesome! The castle at Marvao (the location of the stage 1 finish) was built in the 9th century.

Some of these photos were stolen from Tom and Jesse.

Cobbled streets led us to the castle along the route of our first race

We had some fun with the iPhone 5's panorama feature

The basilicas in Fatima had many rules...no skanks and no trumpets!

A cool road...we're looking at the Marvao castle in the distance

Cool castle is cool. 

Coolest ride I've ever done

We were definitely waterlogged that day

So devastated. 

Just another day at the office.

Here are the race summaries I posted on facebook, along with the videos of each stage.  For some more photos, check out the cyclingnews article about the trip.
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Today was our first race here in Portugal, my first in Europe. As I understand it, the race was part of Portugal's national race calendar, but not a UCI race. 171km with 3 categorized climbs towards the end. The racing was awesome. Very aggressive, constant attacking for almost the whole day. I was in several moves, including one big one that stayed away for a while. Then Salas got away on the first climb in a small group and didn't come back until after the second climb. We prerode the finishing circuit yesterday, so we knew the climb and the run-in to the finish well. The last time up the climb, just 6km from the finish, I gave it a go but could not get clear, so we reverted to our field sprint plan. It was crazy and chaotic, and our train got broken up. With just two turns to go, gaps were opening and a few riders were slipping away. I saw Ken was about to jump to close the gap, so I took a run up his inside with 2 turns to go and he slid in behind me. With him on my wheel, I jumped into the u-turn with 700m to go and sprinted out of the turn, getting him to the small group ahead of us with about 400m to go. He moved over behind them as I dropped anchor, then dusted them in the sprint for the win. When I say dusted, I mean they posted the results with a time gap between him and 2nd place. In summary, Portugal is awesome, and bike racing is quite fun.
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My legs were great today. Going into the cat 3 climb at 150k in, Jesse and i got caught up in a stupid crash caused by others. I got going again faster than him, and was able to make it back to the group. Then I wasted a little bit of energy following moves up the climb. Hit the final climb in good position, had really snappy legs and was on anything that moved. One guy slipped away while I was boxed in, and the group spent a lot of time looking at each other. With a bit more than a k to go, I attacked and was clawed back. I recovered a little, and with 500m to go hit it again, getting clear. I blasted past the last two from the all-day break and closed the leader to 15m in the final switchback as the road leveled off with 150m to go. I didn't have the snap to kick again, and was passed in the final meters by 2 guys. Had I waited just a little longer to attack, that race would've been mine. Live to fight another day....


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Getting closer.... Crosswinds today made for an active and feisty field, with lots of groups coming and going. At 85k in, I managed to slip into a 10-man break. The winds gave us the advantage as the field splintered behind us. We worked well together until guys started to fade. With 10k to go, we still had over a minute lead. Inside 2k, I followed the first attack, then countered in the gutter going into a roundabout, which opened gaps like I hoped. Only 1 guy followed, and it turned out to be the one guy I knew I couldn't outsprint, Stuyven from bontrager. We were committed, though, and he out kicked me in the finale. I've moved into 2nd in GC, and the real fun starts as the weather turns for the worst. Yeehaw!

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Today's stage was exciting and boring at the same time. 20 minutes before the start, we were huddled in the van as waves of pea-sized hail rained down. Then the sun came out, although we were rained on a few times during the race. Being 2nd on GC (and wearing the points jersey) meant I was to stay protected in the field all day. There were several very fast sections with mild crosswinds, so the 11-tooth got a lot of time today. The break didn't get away until 120k in, and we slowed to a crawl for half an hour. The guys kept me out of the wind, though, and I averaged 134bpm for the whole day. The last 20k were downhill with a tailwind, so you can imagine how much fun I was having while fighting to stay at the front at 70kph. Our leadout train assembled, but was swarmed with 3k to go and then it became a fight for survival as the road plunged on a technical descent into town. Ken freelanced it, taking the win like a boss and I came in 20th or so after closing gaps the last 2k to get same time on the stage.

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50 deg and raining hard at the start of today's stage. We embro'd up and rolled out for a thorough soaking. It dumped rain on us for 60k, and nothing interesting happened until we reached a town with a raised railroad crossing at a very oblique angle. Guys went down everywhere, and I managed to slow significantly and alter my approach, but still ended up on the ground. Not sure what happened, maybe somebody's bike hit my wheel. No big deal, jumped up and rejoined the field. Mild winds excited the field as we changed directions frequently along the coast, but we stayed together. Then after the final sprint of the day, Zirbel and Zwiz attacked together on a tailwind false flat climb and the Portuguese teams whose race-losing tactics have baffled us since our arrival let them go. Uhhh...you just let two big TT guys roll away with 15k downhill to the finish.... Spoiler : they would never come back. At the top, the field started gearing up for the sprint and we took control of the front to stay out of trouble. Thankfully the roads were dry by this point. We kept the pace high but under control, and the other teams let us. About 4k out, I heard the giant pileup that would whittle the field down to 40 riders. We delivered Ken (and ourselves) safely to the beginning of the technical descent into town. Rather than fight for position, I floated the turns, taking good lines and avoiding the multiple crashes. Sandy final turns persuaded Ken to call it a day--we already had the victory--and I finished same time with the group while Zirbel moved way up on GC. Tomorrow's stage is short but tough, I can't wait!

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In today's final stage of Volta ao Alentejo, we went all in to try and seize the overall from the Bontrager team. The circuit featured a fast cat4 climb that we would do 4 times. The guys were attacking from the gun, keeping constant pressure on bontrager to chase. 20k in, we assembled on the front before a good crosswind stretch that we checked out before the start. After making the turn, we put it in the gutter and went full gas for nearly 10 minutes, knocking the field down to about 50-60 riders. From that point on, nobody really want to race besides us. Our guys continued to flog themselves, but bontrager held strong. The 4th time up the climb, we put in a team attack to launch me. Unfortunately nobody followed, so we adjusted the plan to go for the stage win with me. I flatted with 30k remaining, motor pacing back up to the caravan. Because of a couple of flats and exhaustion, I only had Salas helping me into the base of the climb. Once it pitched up 2k from the finish, I was on my own in the scrum. I forced myself to stay patient and allow the other racers to pull back the little attacks as we twisted upward. The final turn was a 500m to go. The front of the race came back together just before the turn. I was 10th wheel, had momentum as the road flattened out temporarily, and the inside line was open. I'd had enough patience and didn't want to leave it to a group sprint because there were still better sprinters than me in the group. I jumped hard up the inside, just making it past the leader before he dove into the corner. I took it hot, coming out of the turn with a 10m gap and stretching it. 300m to go, one rider caught me and started to go by. I slid in behind him, and he exploded. So I jumped again, desperate for the finish to arrive. I just kept sprinting, checking between my legs and seeing a wheel back there, but not getting any closer. So I kept sprinting, still leading. 50m to go, I refused to slow down. Then 20m before the line, an orange blur (I was crosseyed by this point) came by me. I actually found the breath to scream "Nooo!" I was caught so off guard. I nearly fell off my bike after I crossed the line. So I wrapped up my euro debut with two 2nds, a 4th, and 2nd in GC in a UCI stage race, hungry for more.

Checking in and catching up

I can't believe I busted my hands up over 7 months ago. A lot has happened since then....

Hands busted on July 18. Crazy expensive surgery on July 20...thank you, insurance + parents!

In the following weeks, I watched way too much Olympic coverage. But the Olympics weren't on all day, so I watched way too much TV...including all of Breaking Bad, Parks and Rec, Arrested Development, etc. I was in a low place and couldn't do much besides lay there. I had permission to ride the TT bike on the trainer (not putting weight on my hands). I had multiple days of preparing for a trainer session, climbing on, then climbing down after 2 pedals strokes because, well, what's the point?

To beat me down further, I watched my team race the Tour of Utah online--a race I was supposed to be in--while learning that my efforts in 2012 helped the team secure a start in the TTT World Championships.

...and that concludes the depressing part of this post.

Just a week after the surgery, they removed the big casts and fitted me with more functional splints. I definitely got light-headed when I saw the pins in my thumb...

The day after getting my new splints, I was flying with my parents to Colorado to get my truck out of airport parking and help with the already-planned move to Colorado Springs. We were probably the least useful moving crew ever. I had two busted hands, my dad's back is delicate, and my mom is a tiny woman. Nonetheless, my dad and I did much more than we should have (while being as smart as possible about it--for instance, I had been off painkillers entirely for days, so I knew instantly if I did something my thumb didn't like).

We got the move completed, with most of the thanks due to Ian's overworked back, then drove back to Texas.

Just before my 24th birthday, the doc told me I could stop wearing my wrist brace, resume driving, and pulled the pins from my thumb along with trimming down the splint. The icing on the cake was the permission to ride outside again with my splint.

With that news, I concluded my month of couch potatoing and returned to Colorado. I was riding my TT bike almost exclusively because it was the most comfortable, and helped Creed train for the TTT championships with what little form I had remaining.

As my thumb became stronger again, I started doing epic road rides and just enjoying the fall weather. Of course, my injury had happened right as I was coming into form again, so I picked up where I left off and started getting really fast again just chasing Strava segments around the Springs. Because I had nothing else to focus on, I worked hard at eating really well....and lost 5 lbs. I got down to 158lbs, the lowest I've been in years. It's tough to lose the weight during race season with all the traveling and eating out, but now I know how to do it. As a result, I was in the climbing form of my life.

I was finally cleared to race in mid-October, and I kicked things off with two weekends of cross racing. I did both days of the USGP in Fort Collins, actually doing pretty well even though my skills weren't too sharp and I had a lot of hair getting in my way.

Then I spent a weekend with my Grandma, racing in Oklahoma, where my extended family got to watch me race for the first time (and they saw me win!). My parents even came up to see me race, which they haven't been able to do for a long time. I had my own personal photographer that weekend--I was glad to see my Dad out playing with his camera again!

Then I got an awesome new mountain bike and hung up the road bike entirely for a month while I played around. I jumped on the hardtail 29 train and never looked back.

Then I rested up even more leading into Thanksgiving, when I kicked off base training for the new season. I piled on the miles, rested a week over Christmas when snow covered North Texas, and then piled the miles on again. Between Thanksgiving and Feb 1st, I rode 3500 miles (and dropped a little more weight), a personal best by a long shot.

After another week of rest, I headed off to California for team camp, where I saw just how much faster I can go uphill without carrying around a little extra weight. The big test for me, though, was the time trial day, when I would see whether I'd actually lost any power while slimming down. Survey says...nope.

Climbing the brutal Deer Creek Canyon on camp-champ day

To make camp even better, I got to spend the last day at the San Diego wind tunnel with HED aerodynamics guru Dino, fine-tuning my time-trial position. It was a rare opportunity for the bike racer and engineer in me to both come out and play. Anemometers, strain gauges, CdA, yaw angles, testing protocols...I was right at home.

Dino adjusted my TT position significantly last year to an already-fast position, so our time in the tunnel went very quickly as we made small adjustments to find the perfect position. They sent me home with discs of data, photos, and video, including this cool one with all the different angles... Keep in mind, this was only the 6th test, the position just got faster from here.

On a related note, I stumbled upon an old photo of me time-trialing in 2010. I was pushing so much wind back then!

As aero as a brick compared to my position now

After a week back in Colorado after camp, in which I had to ride my cross bike in the snow on multiple occasions, I was off again to the Merco Classic. The TXBRA racer in me couldn't believe I didn't start my season until March, but that's life now. I definitely was fighting some demons at the start of the first stage (and throughout the race for that matter). My last race had ended, ah, poorly, and I was finally getting back on the horse 7 months later. I had to yell at myself to get out of my own head and race my bike. Then I jumped into the race-winning break.

The time trial there was my first in my new position, and I loved it. Zirbel and I both went significantly faster this year than last, and again were separated by only tenths of a second. Nobody could beat Ben Jacques Maynes that day, though, but I was happy with my performance all weekend considering it was my first race of the year! I ended up finishing the race in 3rd overall, a good start to the year.

And now, I look forward to an awesome year of racing. There has been a lot of hype around me, including cyclingnews and velonews articles, but I'm just too excited and thankful to be healthy and on good form to think much about those.

In just two more days, I'm leaving the country for a 10-day trip to Portugal, my long-awaited European debut! Stay tuned....

Guatemalan bike racing

I've decided it's time to write a story I've been thinking about for a long time.... We're going all the way back to the Tour of Guatemala in May, stage 6 in particular. Aside from my prologue win at the Cascade Classic the day before my season ended, this race was my favorite day on the bike in 2012. I have wanted to tell the story for a long time but wasn't sure of the best way to do it. Lately, though, I have been kept up at night or awoken mid-sleep with snippets of how to do so. Without further ado, este es mi narracion de la sexta etapa en la Vuelta a Guatemala.

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The cacophony of indecipherable noise around me did its best to drown out the agony of exertion racking my body, but it still wasn't enough. I could feel my heart pounding in my ears, mouth agape, struggling for every last bit of oxygen in the thin air as I put my entire body into each pedal stroke. I stared at the ground, watching the bricks go by one at a time while my sweat dripped off my nose onto the stem, unaware of the broken spoke causing my rear wheel to rub the brake on each revolution. There was no point in consulting the masking tape on the stem with points of interest sharpied onto it--I had already passed the final KOM and was only 3 kilometers from the point hastily and unceremoniously designated: 131-FIN.

It seems in the excitement of the race, I had played down in my mind the already under-hyped "final hill into town". There was nothing left to do but give chase. His torn and bloodied bibs popped in and out of view as the barriers narrowed to a single lane, the spectators leaning as far into the road as balance would allow while shaking excited fists and dangling flags in my face only to yank them away as I neared. Others threw handfuls of homemade confetti in the air, a colorful snowfall that easily stuck to my sweaty body, seeping dye onto my skin and jersey while spectators further back lit firecrackers to add to the raucous din.

Yet somewhere still further ahead in the chaos was the lone race leader. I chose to focus on the two ahead of me, rather than the charging peloton some unknown distance in arrears. Either the best road race of my career or another forgettable pack finish lay but a couple of kilometers ahead; just a few more minutes and it would all be settled.

How is it that I came to be in this position? Why was I the one chasing, and not the other way around? The outcome of every race is the result of a long string of decisions, many of which were made before the race passed kilometer zero.

I arrived in Guatemala superficially rested--that is, I had taken an easy week after Joe Martin and Gila, but was still very fatigued from the thousands of accumulated race miles in only a couple of months. We were racing with a small 5-man squad, and we were givin'er all we had. Marsh was our GC rider, proving on stage 2 that he could climb with the Colombians after a pack finish on stage 1. I had confirmed--as suspected--that my top end was continuing to slide.

Sick of being useless to my team because I couldn't hang on the climbs, I began a fervent pursuit of the all-day break. The one thing I could manage was riding tempo all day long, and my best chance of helping Marsh was to have him, along with the other leaders, catch up to the break late in the race.

Stage 6 was the fifth road stage, and would mark my third time in the long break. The stage, 131 kilometers/82 miles in length, was tailor-made for a breakaway to be caught on the only big climb of the day.

The race would open with nearly 50 miles of a dead-flat hotdog circuit in Quetzaltenango--terrain as unforgiving for the featherweight climbers ruling the race as the climbs had been to me. After completing the circuits, we would hit a category-1 climb--reaching nearly 10,000'--before plunging back down to the finish.

Having no aspirations of my own, I was chomping at the bit to punish the little guys on the flats and get far enough ahead in the break that I could help Marsh over the top of the climb when the break was inevitably caught. The circuits at 7000' guaranteed the sea-level racers would be missing a gear, and the cooler weather meant I had no fears of overheating.

As we rolled beneath the start banner, one of the local teams immediately strung the field out for the sprint points the next time around, catching many of us off guard. We hunkered down and hung on as best we could while the field snaked along in single file. Like soldiers pinned down in their bunkers by heavy fire, we waited for the others to run out of ammo. Immediately after the sprint, counter-attacks began with fury and we found that our legs had warmed up.

Kilometers ticked by as the field shuffled and reshuffled, one failed breakaway attempt after another. A break of 6 was trying to sneak away, and a few lone riders were stuck in no-man's land, flailing as they chased the escapees. We had nobody in the move yet, but Sherer and I were ready to pounce on opposing sides of the field. The GC leader's team was beginning to assemble at the front--they were about to set up shop for a long day of tempo, meaning this break was about to go for good.

Of all the attack methods in cycling, the most enjoyable is taking a run from the back. By the time you reach the front, you're in a full sprint, buzzing the tower of the guys at the front. I launched from way back but had to abort when the pack shifted left, pinching me into the curb. Sherer was ready on the other side, following the next attacker trying to bridge. Seeing that attack fizzle after being chased down, I worked my way to the right side and launched again.

This time, I skirted the edges of field like a rocket hugging the hillside, blasting off the front in full-flight at nearly 40mph. Knowing that my matches didn't burn long these days, I knew the bridge had to be as fast as possible. I certainly felt like Maverick in Top Gun, running up behind the guys in no-man's land so fast that I barely had time to weave between them all for that short bit of draft. I had just enough momentum to reach the back of the break, wheezing like I'd been punched in the gut. As soon as my lungs worked again, so did I--we had to just put our heads down for a few minutes to get the move established. Badda bing, badda boom, step one was done.

The move was comprised of 7 riders from a mix of teams, including the KOM leader, a teammate of the race leader and allowed to sit on the back as such. Fulling expecting to be caught on the climb later, I knew we needed a long leash before leaving the circuit. The race commissaire gave us time splits; I was never satisfied. I became a redneck hoarding ammunition in preparation for the coming zombie apocalypse: no amount would satisfy me.

I had to make a decision  Take on the lion's share of work to keep the break rotating and gaining time, or conserve some energy and possibly be caught too early to be much help to Marsh. I chose the former, of course. Every time my fellow escapees started to slack or someone tried to skip a pull, I went to the front and picked up the pace again. The time gaps kept climbing: 3 minutes, 4 minutes, 5 minutes.... By the time we exited the circuit and headed for the hills, our gap was up to 7 minutes. Hopefully that would be enough to get us most of the way up the 2500' climb.

The road ahead climbed slowly as it approached the looming mountains, a small taste of what was to come. As I knew they would, or time gaps started dropping the second the chasing Colombians began to climb. As we reached the town signaling the base of the mountain proper, the commissaire, unable to be heard above the deafening crowds lining the curbs, simply put four fingers in the air as she stood in the sunroof of the officials' car. They're coming.

I led the break through town to give myself good lines through the tight turns on broken streets, and it proved to be the best decision of the day. Seeing motion on my left side, I couldn't conjure the Spanish word in time, choosing instead to point and shout, "DOG!" The curious animal ran just behind me. At the sound of carnage, I whipped my head around in time to see bikes in the air and bodies hit the ground, others swerving into the ditch or across the road.

4 made it through unscathed, and we had no choice but to follow racing etiquette and wait, at least a little while, to see if our companions would return. One made it back, but the other two were done--a dislocated shoulder and broken collarbone, I would later learn.

Then we started the serious climbing. I focused on the wheel in front of me, refusing to think about how far we still had to climb. Sometimes I sat on, but other times, when I felt the pace was becoming a bit too much, I went to the front to turn it down a notch. Up and up we went, and suddenly it became apparent that our chances of getting to the top before the field caught us were increasing. With only a couple of kilometers left to climb, we still had 2 minutes on the field.

If we got to the top first, we would get to the finish first.

The ballgame just shifted.

With newfound motivation, I dug deeper to hang on as the pace accelerated. Our team director, Gus, came up and reminded me that the guys on the Guatemalan teams ought to know the descent. I kept that in mind, but also thought that knowing the descent and being able to rail it in a race are not the same thing.

Although I wanted nothing to do with the KOM sprint, I had to chase nonetheless, as a 5-second gap across the top becomes a football field at descending speeds.

As I passed under the KOM banner in fifth, I offered up a quick prayer. It's about to get crazy up in here...God, please give my guardian angel his fast wings today.

It's not reckless if you're merely using every ounce of talent, skill, and training you possess. The road plunged, my speed climbed, and the first corner approached. The soft, open bend could be taken full-gas. I blasted around the outside of the two who feathered their brakes, and wouldn't be seeing them again. I was in hot pursuit of the final two.

The next corner was a hard, open right-hander. I stayed off the brakes as I swung left, then dove hard for the apex only to find a TV motorcycle got there first, forcing an adjustment to my line. Feathering the rear brake as hard as I dared, I ended up just inches from the grass. Dusting it off, I sprinted out of the turn. Descending requires complete focus; you have no time to dwell on any mistakes.

The extra weight I hauled up the mountain was paying dividends on the way back down. Chin nearly touching my stem, I swept from apex to apex through the turns, keying off the lines of those I was chasing as I nearly touched 60mph on a few of the straight sections. Halfway down the descent was a small town with a category-4 climb. Closing in on the town, I sprinted down the last of the hill for that extra bit of momentum, finally catching the others before the short climb was to start.

My tank was nearly empty by this point, though, and I couldn't hang with the others for even just a few minutes of climbing. By the time I reached the top, I had a 15-second gap to close down. As it turns out, the second half of the descent was even more challenging.

The adrenaline rush that results from racing down a mountain also results in a hyper-awareness of sorts. As the wind noise drowned out everything else, I focused on making a perfect run down a foreign descent. All at once, I was reading the terrain and all of the road within view to plot a mental map of upcoming turns while getting feedback through the bike about the road surface, which I was also scanning for imperfections or other threats. Brake late but before the turn, dive in late on blind corners, accelerate away from the apex, stay low; a routine I've practiced enough to become automatic.

Then the descent threw a curveball. A large sweeping u-turn was fast approaching; I judged it to be doable at about 40mph. Waiting until the last second to brake, I realized too late that the road surface was broken up and covered in gravel, and I couldn't slow down in time before the turn. Shifting the braking load from front to rear, I began to fight the bike into the turn as it bucked beneath me on the rough surface. I heard a pop as I missed the apex wide and got a brief spell of point-fixation while looking at the ditch coming up quickly. Remembering to look where I wanted to go, I corrected my line but was now fighting gravel for traction while still trying to brake and stay on the pavement.

I was finally in the clear and off to the next turn as I quickly checked my bike for the cause of the unsettling noise. Unable to determine the source, I pressed on, only to find dozens of locals waving me down at what turned out to be a very deceptive, very steep set of switchbacks. Hints like that are best not to ignore. Rounding the final switchback, I came up on the Guatemalan rider who was now a bit worse for wear after a close-up look at the roadside vegetation.

The descent flattened out as the kilometers ticked by and we traded hard pulls, hoping to reel in the Colombian that remained out of sight. We finally rounded a bend and I saw the wall we were to ride up. I had barely reached the bottom when my bloodied friend began to ride away from me and disappeared into the flags dancing around his head.

Reaching the crest of the hill about 5 seconds behind him, I accelerated down the bricked hill into town and bounced around the turn at the bottom in desperate chase of the little guy in orange. My exhausted pedaling was exacerbated by the cobbled streets tossing me about as I craned my neck to see the next turn through the flags and confetti. I saw the u-turn, but discovered too late that it was dirt. Slamming on the brakes, I slid the rear wheel through the turn and sprinted off after him as I passed the 1K banner. I figured that first place was out of reach now, but I could at least take 2nd. Sprinting down a hill, I hoped to slingshot back to him on the next rise.  It very nearly worked, but I ran out of gas just as I reached him and he pulled away in the final 300m to take 2nd.

We were over a minute behind the winner, and the field sprinted across the line just a minute behind us. I would've loved to win the race, but in hindsight I did much of the work that allowed the break to succeed in the first place and prevented me from winning...but that's racing, and a day on the bike I'll always remember.

The confetti as the leaders passed through was actually much thicker.

Everyone has their reasons. Here are mine.

I'm a cyclist with a blog, so I suppose it's time for me to tackle the topic everyone's talking about...except I don't really want to.

Regarding the recent happenings within the sport, I think Zirbel expresses our shared sentiments quite well, and his experiences make his a more qualified viewpoint: http://tomzirbel.blogspot.com/2012/10/weighing-in.html

Instead, I want to explain my own situation and why I am--and will always be--competing clean.  It's a different situation for everyone, and it's much more complicated than simple morals. Everyone who has confessed recently said they knew it was wrong, but other factors pushed them towards making the wrong choice.

So here's where I stand.

I have options.

Many racers we're reading about now got themselves backed into a corner. The choice was to dope and succeed, or stay clean and have no way to pay the bills. Thankfully the mentality is shifting and racers can succeed clean now. They could be superstars by doping (if they managed not to get caught), but can at least be successful clean, making the choice easier.

As much as I love my job, it's not the end-all-be-all for me. I have a degree in Mechanical Engineering from Texas A&M (WHOOP!). I would be heartbroken to give up racing professionally, but if it came down to paying the bills, I'd be just fine without it.

I don't have friends to spare.

I have never had a great number of friends. Growing up I had a few very close friends, and by the end of high school we had all grown apart. College was a chance to reset. I became super-involved in the A&M cycling team and made many lasting, close friendships. We became friends while I was a cat. 4 on the road. They played a large part in my development as a racer, and have cheered me on as I climbed the ladder.

Aside from my Aggie friends, every other friend I have is somehow involved in cycling. Every. Single. One.

Doping would burn all these friendships, the ones that matter.

When I was a cat 2, I had a good rival. We were evenly matched in every race that year. One race in particular, we called the race a week in advance. "It's going to be just the two of us at the end, head to head." That's exactly what happened.

Later that year, I got on velonews and learned he had been tested out of competition and was popped for a long list of serious PEDs. I was so offended and hurt that I still have not spoken to him since.

I couldn't get away with it.

I've said it before: I'm my mama's boy. She's a worrier, and so am I. If I started taking PEDs, I would be a nervous wreck all the time. I'd give myself away immediately. The fact of the matter: I'm terrible at getting away with things.

I once TP'ed a house with my friends. Not 2 hours later, the cops were at the door.

In middle school, I was a tech-aide. We would help with the computers around the school, keeping everything running. I and the other aides had a key to the elevator, and one day decided to take the elevator just because we could. It broke down. We were stuck in there for close to an hour. Firefighters had to break the thing open with airbags.

Those are just two examples, although there aren't many more. I'm not fit for a life of crime.

I like a challenge.

I remember a quiz I cheated on in 5th grade. It was about naming the states. We had just been passed back our homework, and when I got stuck in the quiz I remembered that the homework was just sitting under my desk, out in the open. I got all the questions right as a result, but didn't feel very good about it.

I remember a quiz I cheated on when I was 10 years old. You think I could ever come to terms with cheating in the sport I love?

As years went by in school, I developed a sick pleasure in wrecking curves without cheating. Especially in math classes. Especially in Calculus. I didn't much feel the need to rat people out...I got more satisfaction out of beating them fair and square, and ruining the curve while I was at it.

In college, I wasn't wrecking curves anymore, but I began to take full responsibility for my grades. I knew that I was capable of making whatever grades I wanted if I was willing to put in the work. In almost every case, I chose bike races over studying. If I wasn't prepared for class, that was my own fault.

I had one class...I don't remember the name of it. It was MEEN 357, I know that much. Sounds tough, doesn't it? Well, the final exam was a take-home, open book, open notes project. The only stipulation was no working with other students. The project had something to do with writing a differential equation solver to animate a pendulum. The problem was that all the students went to the same lab to work...and a lot of the submissions ended up looking quite similar. I stuck it out, took longer, and wrote a more complicated and longer program than necessary, but I got it done by myself and took satisfaction in that.

When it comes to cycling, I want the satisfaction of knowing that my success is 100% legitimate, regardless of what my competitors are doing.

The #1 reason I will not use PEDs.

I've told this story before, but here's the gist of it: I'm a bike racer because my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer.

He had never done anything to give cause for lung cancer, and yet he had it.

I wanted to race pro before the cancer, but it convinced our whole family not to pass up opportunities. You can't take anything for granted, so I jumped at the chance to make a living doing what I love. Doping would ruin that.

PEDs have legitimate uses in the medical world. My dad is on/has taken many of them. Because he needs them.

I can't even wrap my head around taking those drugs so I can pedal a bike faster. What a ridiculous reason to poison your body.

Vuelta Ciclista del Uruguay: Stages 9 and 10

Sorry for taking so long to finish this race off--things, as you may know, have kind of gone nuts in the cycling world. I've been reading the depressing confessions and commentaries as fast as they've been coming out.

I also spent the weekend helping at (and enjoying) Zirbel's wedding. Tom and Rebecca are my Colorado parents...here we are after finishing the Pikes Peak Hill Climb back in July:

Okay, time to finish Uruguay! Caught up already? No? Well, do so:

Arrival
Stage 1
Stage 2
Stage 3
Stage 4
Stage 5
Stage 6
Stage 7
Stage 8

We convinced Tom to start the stage. He was already there, already dressed, so why not give racing a shot? He could pull out at any point if he wanted.

We were optimistic, but knew that the next two days were going to hurt. With Tom so sick (and the rest of us not so hot, either), we were quite relieved that the responsibility of defending yellow fell on the Brazilians.

This 115-mile stage started in Montevideo, the same as stage 1 had. We even had a spare bike now that Reid had dropped out--just strap it to the roof of the Geely and let's do this!

Our plan for the day was for Zirbel and Zwiz to survive without losing time. Hanson would help both of them where he could, while also working with Soladay to make sure we didn't miss a big move--we still couldn't afford to get caught out, especially if one of the yellow jersey's teammates was in the move. I was to wear myself out taking care of Zirbel.

Racing started fast, as usual, and before long Soladay was in the long move of the day that quickly built up a sizeable gap. It was a bit perplexing, as this was the first time that an all-day break got away and the first time any break was allowed to get away with an Optum rider in it. I guess the Brazilians just wanted to do a conventional defense and ride the front all day.

Zirbel and I were hanging out towards the back where it was less chaotic, because the field had calmed down. It was a bit windy, though, and suddenly they accelerated on the front and put us all in the gutter. They surged hard enough to split the field, and Tom and I ended up in separate groups without my knowledge (things get a bit chaotic in the gutter and you don't have a lot of time to look around). Once we slowed down to a more reasonable speed, Ken told me to go get Zirbel, and I was panicked to look back and see him on the front of the chase group, 20 seconds behind us.

I immediately sat up and waited for them to catch me so I could get Zirbel off the front. Of course the slackers on his wheel had been unwilling to help. Once he reached me, I slowly ramped up the pace and brought him back up to the field.

Once back up there, Ken scolded me on dropping the ball. It stung at the time, but mostly because he was right. I had hugely underestimated the level of shepherding that Tom needed, and I had to do better. Ken said he could do the hard efforts, but riding tempo all day to keep Tom out of the wind was not his strong suit. It was mine, though. In fact, riding tempo was about all I could do anymore.

So began my day of  being Tom's guide. Positioning in a pack is a mental as well as physical exercise, and he did not have the ability to handle the mental aspect of it. He was powerless to move within the pack except for backwards, but he could focus on the wheel in front of his--mine--and follow it around. So that's what we did. I stayed on the upwind side of the pack and focused on keeping him toward the front, checking regularly between my legs for the unmistakable HED wheels and his bright yellow shoes.

Riders would come up and move him off the wheel, and we'd start over again. I dropped back and waited for him to pop out at the edge of the pack again, and I took him back up.

I was trying to eat and drink, but it wasn't working. Both gave me stomach cramps, so once in a while I would take a small sip of water and chew a small bit of a ClifBar.

As the race dragged on, one kilometer after another (we were counting down in kilometers because they go by faster), Tom continued fighting his internal battle to stay in the race. He had started with the goal of reaching kilometer 50. Then kilometer 100. Then 110. Then 120. And so on.

Once in a while, the winds would shift and the Brazilians would surge to keep us from getting too comfortable. The field would string out, and I moved further into the wind to shelter Tom and Ken, getting them as close to the front before I died in the event of the field splitting.

Moving Ken and Tom up as far as I can

It became a pattern. I would get them most of the way to the front when the field strung out, I'd hit the wall hard and swing off, and Ken would shelter Tom from there. Every time I got dropped, I thought that was it. I was quickly running out of energy, but somehow I kept getting back to the field and resuming my duty until the next time I got dropped. My max heart rate had fallen 20bpm to a pitiful 166, the highest I reached during the stage. Yeah, I was worn out.

From what I can remember, I got dropped at least 3 times. The last two times, I was at the mercy of my chase group as to whether I got back or not. I can't believe I made it back at all the final time--I was 30 seconds off the back of the field, and Wohlberg even gave me a couple bottles to finish the race with. Then I got caught by a small group that pulled me back up there with the help of a resting field.

I tried to avoid looking at my Garmin as much as possible, as the kilometers were passing by at a painfully slow rate.

Finally I got dropped hard enough that I never made it back. I had managed to protect Zirbel for 80 miles, and as the race dragged on, I had to hope that it was enough. Eventually we caught Soladay, whose break had been caught, and he had been dropped from the field. The grupetto was just as frustrating as before, but I was so cracked that all I could do was focus on the wheel ahead and try to finish.

After an eternity, we reached the finish. Only those who have experienced an incredible bonk know the state I was in at that point. I had just finished a 5-hr race, burning somewhere in the neighborhood of 4000 calories after my meager breakfast. During the race, I had taken in a grand total of about 5-600 calories because of my unsettled stomach, and I was a bit dehydrated after drinking only 3 bottles. I found my team and collapsed on the ground, too exhausted to be bothered by the throng of spectators standing just inches from my fingertips. After I lost contact, Ken was able to protect Tom for the rest of the race, and Zwiz had managed to protect his position as well.

The next hour passed very slowly. Zirbel and I were both zombies, and we just lay on the hotel floor waiting to feel like humans again. With concerted effort, Tom managed his first words of the day to me.

"Thanks, buddy."

My shower lasted half an hour, as I just curled up in the corner under the water and waited for my heart rate to come down.

Big Tom skipped dinner, opting instead for a trip to the corner store. He stuffed himself with ice cream and went to bed early, hoping for the best.

The remaining 4 began the very slow walk to dinner, but Soladay turned around when he began to feel strange--he had bonked hard as well, and was still trying to recover from it.

So Zwiz, Hanson, and I had a good dinner at a restaurant that we'd been told was doing the race dinner. There were some other teams there as well. When finished, we walked out and confusion ensued--turns out we were supposed to pay! The Movistar director helped with translations, and eventually the three of us apologetically scraped together enough money to pay them.

That night, I wandered to the corner store and brought back large quantities of ice cream, yogurt, candy, and chocolate milk. I had a room to myself at the hotel and found Tenacious D in the Pick of Destiny (in English!) on TV, and settled in for an evening of stuffing myself and filling the room with vile fumes. The door to the bathroom remained closed, as the toilet was broken and wouldn't flush...a fact I learned after doing untypeable things to it.

The following morning, we were up early for our final bus transfer. I nearly gagged looking at the ham and cheese at breakfast. The yogurt was the only thing I could stomach anymore (although I still got stomach cramps), so I knocked back 5 glasses of it before leaving one last gift in the broken toilet and boarding the bus.

Stage 10 was 124 miles. Blessedly, Zirbel felt human again, although still a bit sick. Much better than the day before, though, which was good as I had nothing left to give.

Just one more stage. We can do this! Immediately, a long break went and again Soladay was in it. The rest of us got Big Tom established as the man who rides directly behind the yellow jersey..."es el segundo!" and left him to enjoy the rest of the day at the back of the Brazilian train. Hanson stayed nearby, watching over him and greatly enjoying asserting himself on anyone who tried to push Zirbel off the wheel.

Tom ended up flatting out of the break, then played a little prank on the field. Wohlberg was called up to give him a wheel, then shielded him with the car at the edge of the road as the field passed by. He then jumped back in and hung out at the back, leaving the Brazilians to think he was still in the break.

The miles slowly passed by, and the surging occurrences were rarer than the day before. I tailgunned most of the day, as it required less energy than fighting for position.

Soladay pulling me back to the field after I gave him a nature-break push

With just 40 miles left to go, I hit a rock and flatted the front wheel. Bob gave me a really quick wheel change, but I barely got back to the field. The caravan was super spread out and I could barely use it to get back, not to mention my legs had no more left to give.

As the closing kilometers passed by and the last remnants of the break were caught, I tried to get to the front to help Hanson, but I didn't make it. In the end, he freelanced his sprint again in the twisty final kilometer and removed any doubt that he was the fastest man in the race.

Zirbel held on to 2nd in GC, and Zwiz dropped down to 4th. Hello, UCI points! I was just so relieved to have finished, and enjoyed finally giving water bottles away!

That night we partied with more chivitos, pizza, and cervezas.

We said hello to Zirbel's little friend, which we had to leave behind for want of luggage space.

And we learned from the Colombians that Soladay had been allowed to get away in the long breakaways because they thought he wasn't a true member of our team, as evidenced by the different bike he was on (major points for finishing a 1000 mile stage race on a borrowed bike, by the way!).

The next morning, we were up at 4 for the trip to the airport.

At the check-in counter, Bob asked about our still-missing luggage. We were about to leave the country, so where the heck is it?!

"Oh, the bikes? They've been sitting in the office for a week, why haven't you come to pick them up?"

Blank looks all-around.

"Are you serious?"

In a long and drawn-out argument, we would learn that some unknown person's number had been put on the  contact info for the luggage. When called about the bikes, this person told the airline that we didn't need them after all and to just hang on to them. We have a few conspiracy theories but I'll save them.

Well, at least we had them back.  The kicker was that there wasn't room on our return flight for them, and they would only return them to LA, when we wanted them to go to Denver. And they wouldn't fly the bags for free after all the hassle. Needless to say, not a positive experience.

Our first transfer in Lima was very rushed, as we had to get through security again and find our next gate for the flight to Miami in 30 minutes. It was only me and Zirbel on that mostly empty flight, as we were the only ones returning to Denver. I even got the whole row to myself! Around 9am I had a crazy case of restless legs--it seems they didn't know what to do without a race....

We landed in Miami and I was so happy to be back in the land of English speakers. The first words I heard after walking through the gate? "Beinvenidos a Miami, en los Estados Unidos."

Then the travel marathon resumed, and I finally got home at 1:30am. I crawled into bed, then woke up at 7am, ready to race. Thank you, body clock. At 8am USADA showed up. Welcome back! Now pee in this cup. Have you taken any medications recently? "Yes, lots of immodium and pepto."

I had three more days of intestinal malfunction and then was back to normal. Reid visited the doctor and got tested--he had Giardia and Campylobacter, the latter of which was likely my culprit. Giardia is particularly nasty, and it took Reid, Tom, and Zwiz quite a while (and a lot of very strong parasite-killing meds) to fully recover.

To top it all off, we may never see the prize money from that race. They've developed the habit of paying you when you come back (just before we went over, they finally paid for the team's last visit in 2010), and we may not be going back.

So there you have it. The Vuelta Ciclista del Uruguay: crazy then and in retrospect, but still full of stories and memories and experiences, and an irreplaceable team-bonding and life experience.