The Poet Laureate filed a fine race report in which we learn - think twice before we poke fun at those who rock a triple chain ring:

That was pretty brutal.

After a brief delay due to verb tense issues with Cuban, we were on our way down to the race. The skies were spitting ice pellets and the flags were being torn from their moorings the whole way down. And just when the blue skies would peek through, the car would slip sideways from a sudden gust, and the sleet would start up again.

Apparently, after all this time, I was wrong. Momma DID raise a fool. Sorry, Momma.

Registered. Warmed up. Made sure the ankle bracelet with the chip timer was fashionably attached. Rode back into the wind to check out that mile long finishing hill. It was like pushing through a wall to go over 10 mph and the ice pellets were sandblasting my face.

Got back to the parking lot only to hear that they were going to delay the start of the first wave and combine the fields @ 11:30. Ice on the backside of the course was given as the reason.

Emily, Meow, Mario, Cuban and I decided to head into Cannon Falls to kill time and consume calories. The Quality Bakery and Coffee shop was not up to our high standards, the Country Kitchen was unreachable by human means (and was reputedly responsible for at least one previous episode of gastric distress anyways, so we probably didn’t put out as much effort as we normally would), and so we settled on a little cafe/coffee shop that was serving full breakfast.

Service was slow - mainly due to the highschool-aged female waitstaff’s infatuation with Mario. Or perhaps Cuban. Or perhaps both. My money’s still on Cuban.

Cuban’s appetite was truly awe-inspiring.

The bill was settled quickly despite Drew not being there to assist.

Back to the race. There was a big power-generating windmill just outside the parking lot that was spinning fit to take off. You could actually feel the car struggling to make headway into the wind.

More warming up. Say hello to Drew and Danno and Little D. Their field was to go off just before the now combined 4/5 field.

Emily & Meow bail. More fool I.

I lined up near the back, because they were staging the race on the little hill coming out of the church parking lot. I wanted to be on as level a ground as I could, but my foot slipped pushing off…slipped again, and suddenly I find myself OTB before I even have my cleats engaged.

Sarcastic comments from the spectators abound.

I sprinted to catch the back of the field, wind at my back, and caught up just before the first right turn into the cross wind.

The officials said they would be a little more forgiving on the yellow line rule. Nice of them - because that first gust of crosswind blew me almost into the left hand shoulder.

The field was already splintering. I could see the race going up the road and sprinted as hard as I could, tilted as far over as I’ve ever been without actually being in a turn, and tried to catch them.

Those were the worst moments of the race.

The lead group was shelling riders left and right (although mostly left, due to that wind). Even when I thought I’d latched on a couple of times, I’d realize that the wheel I was on was about to pop off and I’d have to repeat the process: sprint past, try to bridge, make it, try to recover, oops, go again.

Finally it settled down to just 12 of us. Risking a brief look over my shoulder, I could see that this was now the race.

Turn into the headwind. We get a good paceline going. As quick a rotation as possible. Manage as fast as 15 mph on the slight downhill sections. Somehow, my pull always comes on an uphill. I begin to hate my break companions. Struggle to keep 12mph. I’m already in my lowest gear. I try shifting down a couple of different times, but nothing happens. Damn.

So the thirteen of us turn right again into the crosswind section. More tilted sprinting. Wait a second, thirteen? Where’d the extra guy come from? “Uh…I think I started with the wrong group.” Excellent strategy. Dubious legality.

One guy launches a solo attack. Hmmm… dude, we’ve still got a lap to go. If you’re planning on doing that headwind section again solo, I wish you luck, but I have a feeling we’ll be seeing you again. (And we do - he doesn’t last more than a couple of miles).

The first hill drops me. I was in the back coming into it, and was a bit surprised at the pace. I didn’t want to blow up, so I just spun up and then sprinted to latch back on on the descent. Made it just as we passed a group of masters riders wearing oddly familiar kits. Danno, Little D and Drew.

I gasp out the current race situation. Get a few words of encouragement, and, despite my protests, a pat on the butt from Little D.

Thanks guys. It was really good to see you.

Stuck with the group into the last big hill. Dropped again. Ouch. I realize that doing the last lap solo may be grounds for institutionalization, so as soon as I crest I start to sprint again. I can see the pack off in the distance, and I’m gaining!

Right at the start/finish line, I catch them. Unfortunately, it’s not my pack. It’s a lead group of the Masters racers. My guys are ahead of them by another 100 meters.

Crap. More sprinting.

I know, as surely as I’ve ever known anything, that if I don’t catch them before the turn into the crosswinds, that I’ll never see them again.

I make it right at the turn. I don’t have to brake, and can pick my own line, and so I coast right into the back of the pack. Hi guys.

Repeat lap one. No extra guy, this time, but more extra hate for break companions. Except for Jason from Grumpy’s who flatted. For him, I felt compassion. Back to just 12.

Lesson learned going into the first hill, I go on a mini-break to get ahead and set the pace. By the time they realize how slow I’m climbing and pass me, we’re already at the top and I’m still attached, leech-like, to the last wheel.

But the final climb thoroughly drops me. By this time, I’ve managed to count that there are only 5 Cat 5 riders in this break, so I figure if I can just struggle in, I’m guaranteed a top 5 finish. Not too bad.

But one of the other 5s is struggling as well. I pull up on his wheel and try to shift down again, but no go. Crap.

Wait a second. I have a triple! I actually laugh out loud as I drop into the granny ring, and spin past. I hope he doesn’t think I was laughing at him. It was more the kind of laugh you get when you wake up on a Saturday, start getting ready for work, and then realize that you can go back to bed.

Given my lap 1 experience, I tried to sprint back on and maybe take a few more places, but the pace was too fast, and even a sustained 37 mph (with the wind) wasn’t enough.

I finished 4th in the 5s. Got some swag. But Drew’s post-race pilsner was the real prize.

1. Hard ass flanders style ride.
2. Every short steep hill we could find.
3. It might be raining.
4. We stay purposely near the city at all times for folks to jump on or bail out.
5. We include a hot lap around the State Fair Crit course.
6. Every time you see a weight icon… hill.
7. 41 miles.

Belgian style hills include:

D streetberg
Ohio Streetberg
Ramseyberg
Kellogg bridgeberg
Indian Moundsberg
Wheelock parkwayberg

Sunday at Noon — Boom Island

1. You’re trying to keep your bike clean for Opus.
2. You’re boycotting Flanders events until the French speaking southern region of Wallonia gets their own government!
3. You’ve spent all winter working on your Milky white skin tone. 20% chance of sun is too just risky.
4. You’re geared to peak at Black Dog 4. 7 steep climbs will blow your training program.
5. You totally have a man crush on Tom Boonen and you are afraid you’ll say something embarassing after a few Duvels.
6. The ebay auction for that fender ends on Monday. Don’t want to ruin that new white kit.
7. You grew a moustache in preparation and are pissed that you planned for the wrong ride.
8. I’m shaving my legs then.
9. You heard the Cat 6ers talk a lot of trash. You don’t feel you’ve committed enough “yo mama” comebacks to memory to be effective on the ride.
10. Rumors of a medical tent have been surfacing.

Steven

This one’s called “Fuck Ketchup”.

and this one’s called “Hot Dog Brooms”