Race Report: GMSR, Stage 3 Road Race

With sore legs after a 70-mile race and then a nervous slumber, I lined up behind Yon and Schlomo in the parking lot of the Sugarbush Ski resort in 55-degree temperatures. Racing a 70-mile point-to-point race with base layers and arm warmers would be a sure change.

The terrain would take us over two small, gradual climbs, then up the leg-sapping Middlebury Gap around the halfway mark. A long descent from Middlebury Gap took us through a number of small towns and valley roads, with only an insanely steep but short climb to the second KOM point of the day. Following this small KOM, there were over 2-miles of dirt roads. The day’s final challenge would be to conquer two climbs in succession, Baby Gap and its impending big brother, Appalachian Gap (called “App Gap”).

Each category’s race started with a shiveringly cold, brake-clenching neutral roll out. Our field was held to exact speed limits until the first gradual climb – which was the TT course in reverse – 5 miles into the stage. Of course, when the referees actually blew the whistle, nobody pedaled hard. Most guys were shivering, so it took some warming up before the race really started. Yon, Dan, and I all were well positioned, but wasting little energy early on.

By the descent of the second “mini” climb, a break of three guys moved up the road. There was no attack; the pace was mellow and the pack simply let them roll away. One by one, a few riders started bridge attempts – including local DC racer John Cutler (RTR/Cyclelife). With Yon to my left, I turned to Dan on my right and asked, “What do you think?” The break was sure to grow if the pack didn’t speed up.

The referees knew this, so they told us there were now seven racers scattered up the road with the leaders between 45 seconds and one minute. The master’s 40+ field was also behind us by only 3 minutes. If we didn’t speed it up – we’d be neutralized for the old guys.

The field came to a general consensus and started hauling ass, but within another minute – no jokes – we were neutralized anyway. The ref led our pack at about 6 mph, so we all took a true nature break on the side of the road (at least 30 guys, pretty funny). When we were finally given the green light – minutes later – we had a field of Masters racers between us and the break, and the first mountain in front of us.

On the lower, gradual slopes of Middlebury Gap, though, we caught up to the Masters field again – they’d let a break slip away and decided to ease off for a nature break. Our race wasn’t yet blistering, but it gradually increased in pace as we climbed Middlebury.

Through halfway up the climb I kept myself positioned in second or third wheel, feeling pretty confident about our strong tempo. Surely we were doing some damage at the back of the group.

The the yellow jersey read my mind’s arrogance. Without standing up out of the saddle or so much as opening his mouth to break, he took control up front with a few guys on his wheel. It wasn’t so much an attack as it was a declaration that the field was not climbing fast enough; he wanted to set an example. I hated him for it.

The rest of the climb, for me, was a struggle to hold on to the wheel in front of me. I drifted from way-up-front to off-the-back of the main group of about 25-30 guys. In desperation I followed the white lines on the road with droopy eyes and a lazy posture, like an addict too far gone. Though my hopes for serious glory on App Gap had been silenced (with the force of a sledgehammer), this wasn’t how I wanted my race to end.

By the top I’d lost about 20-30 seconds to the leaders, but was cresting with three other riders. I didn’t know where exactly where Yon and Schlomo were, but I unfortunately knew they weren’t in front of me.

I worked with the three dropped compadres to haul ass down the descent. I felt like I was dreaming a nightmare of a descent, still riding all out down the mountain to keep my small group on its way back into the race. Battling head-to-crosswinds with the brain-numbing sensation of having just ridden my body into a deeper level of suffer than hell going up the mountain, it was the sort of panicked descent that makes me think, “My mother would kill me if she knew I was doing this shit.”

It was only me and one of the other riders contributing to catch up. Ahead, though, were more stragglers. My grupetto caught up one by one, and with seven guys we finally got a cooperative rotation going. With the lead group now in sight, the crosswinds strengthened on an open false downhill. A 40-man Cat 3 peloton was now frantic in multiple echelons racing down a mountain, and I was in the third group. When the road dropped more and the trees protected us from the gusts, my group finally caught the tail end of the peloton.

I wanted a break – I needed one. It was serious hurt to chase up and down a mountain. As I started getting lazy and taking a sip for the first time in at least half an hour, Schlomo shows up and flies by me. He had more sense to his madness – somehow he’d caught up from another smaller group behind me, but he was going to get his ass to the front. I took the hint.

Only two serious obstacles characterized the second half of the race, and the leaders at this point were between three and four minutes up the road. First though, about ¾ into the course was a seriously steep KOM climb of about 1 kilometer. The climb wasn’t an issue – it was over two miles of straight dirt descending afterward that could make or break your race.

In terms of terrain, the dirt was entirely downhill. It was over two lanes wide and hard-packed from recent rain. But it’s bumpy dirt, so it was never quite downhill enough that it kept people from channeling their inner amphetamine freak on the pedals. Though I crested the climb near the top ten of the main peloton after ramping off someone’s water bottle into the dirt section, I left the dirt second-to-last. We raced the entire dirt section single file (well maybe I did, hanging by a thread at the back).

With referees reporting a shrinking time gap after the dirt, a bunch of MABRA racers hit the front hard on the flats. Nate M. (Coppi), Schlomo, and myself helped the yellow jersey force a harder pace into some headwinds to keep the break in check. Schlomo and I gave up on that effort, though. There just wasn’t enough cooperation, so we sat in for the drag until Baby Gap.

Baby Gap is never steep enough to choke a mule (as our former President once told a certain 7-time tour winner), but it’s never quite steady either. It’s up and then slightly less up, and then you turn and it’s steeper than your legs can manage, but your will pushes them on.

Or maybe that’s just what Baby Gap did to me. Baby Gap forced me to race by checkpoints: Just get to the top. (“Shit, that’s not the top?!?”) Get to the crest of this pitch. Make it to the Moose Crossing road sign. Neutral feed handing out coke – pass these guys to move up!

Schlomo had wished me luck; his legs had waved the white flag halfway up Baby Gap. Effectively, my will was desperate for respite. Cresting Baby Gap, I descended to the base of App Gap proper expecting the race to shatter.

Let’s get one thing straight: App Gap is not as insane of a climb as everyone says. It’s not the hardest climb I’ve done, either. It is only diabolical because you’ve been racing up and down Vermont’s mountains and dirt roads for 66 miles before hitting its steep slopes. When you put a climb like this at the end of an amateur bike race, heaven meets hell.

The race did not shatter too soon, but I sure did. I was running on empty, racing for imaginary checkpoints, and went into pure damage control. My body and mind lost its will to continue holding on even to the scrappy end of the race. So I would hit my 34x26 granny gear tempo, and got as far as my lungs would allow. Then I’d shift into the 34x23 or 21 and stand out of the saddle, dropping myself on each pedal to progress. I kept doing this as the race caravan dropped me, too.

Somehow – many minutes later – I started catching guys one-by-one. With 1k to go, the race had left me as table scraps, but finally I had reached the feared 15-20% pitches of the race. The view cleared and I could see a dozen riders struggling to slalom up the climb. It was a mental boost, though I knew I was in the abyss of the peloton. These racers were worse off than me, though, so one-by-one I caught them. I even caught up to and passed Ben R. (RTR/Cyclelife) who had kept up with the leaders much longer than I had. (Out of retribution, though, he then “outsprinted” me for 33rd place.)

I finished the queen stage in a mediocre 34th place, four minutes behind the winner (three guys surived the breakaway), but feeling as accomplished as ever in my short tenure as a bike racer. Schlomo followed at 14 minutes, and Yon at 20 minutes – this race and its final climb are no joke.