As we all know training for and competing in cycle races has many physical and physiological benefits. The contentment of a long steady ride, the pleasing achievement of a hard training session and the camaraderie of competition are the reasons that we all compete. However there can be a darker side to our endeavors in the form of the mental and physical anguish that is named many ways- ‘the bonk’, ‘the knock’, when you feel ‘sans’ or when you meet ‘L’hombre del mazo’ or ‘the man with the hammer’. Many will say that the more you suffer on the bike, the more you learn to suffer. However this surely applies to cases when you are racing on the limit, using all your reserves of strength to hang onto the wheel ahead or dying ten deaths as you solo away from the group! However when you have ‘the knock’ none of that applies- you feel so devoid of energy then there is no holding of wheels and your wish is for the ground to open up and swallow you up. Talking to a friend is out of the question; you just want to be alone! The climb to ‘cascades’ feels like Boltinghouse and slog to the Firehouse might as well be the Col de Tourmalet.
And so it was for me today!
A great group of seven tortugans (Saccone, Shei, Palmer, Parry, Brauner, Lewis, Millar) rolled up to the forest to meet with an equal group from the IN hand center and rode a steady first lap of the forest with the inevertable splits occuring up Beanblossom. On the second lap the pace of course picked up along Anderson road where the gaps opened up and I was off the back. From my vantage point Tortugans Saccone, Shei, and Palmer seemed to be riding particularly strongly. As the group went away I could tell things were about the go pear-shaped for me but against my better judgement I climbed Beanblossom at record slow speed where I was somewhat dismayed to see the group waiting for me! We took off again and that’s when the legs pretty much feel off. I peeled off the group and prepared for a long ride back in. The climbs of Hindustan and Fireshouse were successively dreadful- no pain but rather a sense of utter lethargy. Oh for a can of coke!
With thoughts of bed and sandwiches I finally made it home with tingling hands and shakey vision. The ride from the firehouse on old37 to my apartment is 6.5miles. It took me 45minutes!

The heat was incredibly oppressive.  A mirage was shimmering just ahead on the road.  I had broken from the field three laps earlier with more than half of the race in front of me.  A train of chasers had formed in pursuit but my lap splits from the announcer indicated that I was gaining time-just seconds really-with every lap.  I had risked it all in this attack.  I had put it all on the line.  No one expected me to stay away.  That’s how I escaped in the first place. It’s a simple formula.  Attack once and let yourself get caught by the field.  Attack again, get caught by a small group.  Attack a third time, get away.  The downside is that you can only do this series once, from the front of the field and if it doesn’t work-and it usually doesn’t-you’re left watching the race from the rear, or worse, the sidewalk.  

Was today to be my day?  I was hoping it was as I pushed an impossible gear, bouncing on my saddle, chest bursting from the pressure.  I wasn’t sure what my speed was or how many laps were left.  It didn’t matter.  I couldn’t go any faster. My arms were aching as much as my legs from leveraging them against the bars.  I spat out the metallic taste of blood in my mouth as I rounded one of the corners alone, hunted.  I was hoping that I could just hang on when I saw the back of the field just ahead and a smile swept across my face.        

This is how I train.  This is what I think about.  This is what hope means to me. It’s a powerful emotion that requires complete, unflinching commitment.  It’s the uncompromising sense that what we do now, how we train today, results in extraordinary performances tomorrow.  It’s looking forward and seeing beyond yourself in the mirror.   As the new year arrives on a carbon-fiber frame and silk tubulars, let’s applaud and thank our financial partners; Bikesmiths, Oliver Winery, Royal Toyota, FedEx and BikeMine.  They are hope for us.  Because of their generosity, we have our team jerseys and discounts on equipment and our own race.  We are the team we aspire to be.  Why do they do this year after year?  Is it good for business?  Does it help their bottom line?  Probably not much.  They support us because of what we represent to them.  Dedication and perseverance in a competitive environment.  A deep commitment to a purpose and a focus on performance.  We become more than a cycling team when we commit to excellence.  We become the mirror that our sponsors and, to a larger degree, our community, look into. Visit our financial partners.  Support them.  Tell your friends about them.  Tell them how much it means to you that they care enough to help us.  They are hope for us.  We are hope for them.  It’s a delicate balance that we must earn every day. Tom

I left the office with the same sort of anticipation that I do every Wednesday.  It matters not that it is the middle of Winter.    The ritual doesn’t vary much and the day accelerates as 5 p.m. draws closer.  Tonight I was greeted by calm air and a warmish 39 degrees.  A setting sun forced long shadows from the fir trees lining the parking lot as I trotted to my car.  I was dressed and wired for lights in no time, clipped in and descending through the golf course anticipating the ride.  It was colder than I thought as I picked up speed on the descent.  My teeth hurt from the wind chill and my eyes watered.  I blinked hard to clear them.  I was hoping for some companions but was bracing for a solo effort tonight as I traversed lower Cascades.

I had some time to think as I warmed up and decompressed from the work day.  I remember thinking how lucky I was and how much I have to be thankful for.  My family and friends, good health, fulfilling employment.  A chance to make a difference.   A lot of things I sometimes, selfishly take for granted.  I was grateful to have the capacity to endure a ride like this.

At 5:45 I turned one last time at the Southern end of Cascades and headed out on my own.  Through the light, up Audubon and North on Old 37.  It was dark now as came up to Bethel Lane.  I could turn here and stay close to home – the smart thing to do-or, I could continue North, every pedal stroke taking me further from my origin.  I thought of the early explorers and how they must have felt as they lost sight of land for the first time.  I put my head down, shifted in the large chain ring and descended toward the forest.   A waxing moon was off my right shoulder just a couple of clicks and rising as it followed me on this familiar course.

I turned down Anderson and headed for Bean blossom.  It was completely dark now save for a red tinge in the Western sky and my light traced the rhythmic sway of my bike on the road ahead of me as I turned a gear slightly larger than I should be in December.  I was in the drops and my head was down, but I was looking forward with my head nearly motionless.   I remember sub-consciously counting pedal strokes and focusing on my breathing, three revolutions to one breath.  It became trance-like through the flat farmland.  I couldn’t see my speed readout but I reckoned I was doing about 27 mph.  And then it happened.  The perfect ride.  That moment where power and speed and cadence and breath and life all intersect for one brief, magical moment.   I wasn’t riding any longer. I was flying.  The small banks of snow illuminated on the shoulder passing like a picket fence, the curve of the road smoothed out before me, the farmland a blur in the shadows.  I felt the goosebumps raise down the back of my neck.   Maybe it was the darkness all around or the tunnel-vision, or lack of oxygen and food that brought this on.  Nothing mattered at that moment.   At the turn I paused, never stopping but listening to the intense quiet all around.   I took a deep breath and headed for home.   I couldn’t recapture the feeling on the way back, but I kept trying anyway.

Tom