Racing in Europe

I can now say "Yes, I raced in Europe!" I am now officially a member of team CSC (Compiegne Sports Cyclistes - notice the spiffy kit)

I will admit that within the first couple kilometers of the race, a big smile shone on my face. I realized that I got to experience something that most cyclists in the US and rest of the world only dream about. Sure it wasn't le Tour de France, Paris-Roubaix, or Milano San Remo (not by any stretch of the imagination). But I got the chance to race my bike in the hotbed of cycling. It was soon after, however, that the smile disappeared and was replaced with the pain, anguish, and burning lungs of racing. 10 kilometers into the 60 k race the usual thoughts begin, "Why do I do this? I spend all that time on training so I can hurt like this?!? Did I really volunteer for this?"

I, however, was not in top form today. Coming off a late one the night before, I woke up with a sore throat and gunk in my lungs causing me to cough all day. Not ideal, but at least the sun was shining.

Readying all my equipment (including changing my brake pads, saddle, and handle bar tape), I gathred my new team uniform that was given to me the day before and packed everything into my little car. I had the directions written down on a post-it note, and off I went. Everything was going well untill in true French fashion, I found out that the bridge was closed. Not closed because of construction, weather, or an accident - you know, normal things - but because Continental Tire factory workers decided to display their displeasure for the effects of the economic crisis by burning a huge pile of tires - on the bridge. And FYI, France isn't laid out like a grid like northern IN is, so I was lost. My itinerary to the race was trashed because of yet another French protest (Friday was another national day of striking). Mumbling at the French under my breath, I continued to drive in circles with no definate gameplan. In my search for the tiny village of "Tracy le Val" I hit three dead ends in a row, followed a car with a bicycle on the back hoping he might be going to the same race, drove the wrong way down a one way street, and drove through the same intersection 3 times - those were just the highlights. Finally, I just gave up the possibility of racing. I decided I could at least watch it and support my teammates if I got there late - or at all.

I finally found the course a mere 30 minutes before my heat. But the very cultural attitude that got me into the situation, got me right out of it. "Bonjour! You say you're late? Not a problem, we're not really running on time anyways. Just be at the start when you can make it. You might want to pick up your racing license if you get a chance." I pounded my peanut butter and honey sandwich and got myself ready.

"C'est parti!" Our race category (the 3's) took off with the level 1 racers already 2 minutes ahead on the course. The pace was immediately blazing. The course rolled through small lazy towns, busy French intersections, past lovely churches, and over narrow, gravely paths that divided cow pastures. It was a little taste of France in all its glory. I quicly realzed that I had my work cut out for me. Legs burning and lungs screaming for respite, I worked at trying to handle my bike at 35 mph in a group of 100 cyclists with just inches of space in every direction. Stressful is an understatement. Winning the race wasn't the goal, surviving the 9 lap circuit alive was. I attempted on several occasions to make my way to the front but I quickly got passed every time as riders would fly through the narrow corners 4-wide. This makes Nascar look like an organized parade. Then the we were lapped by the category 1 racers. To add to the confusion, I didn't know who I was racing against. "He's wearing orange, but is he a category 1 or 3?" By the time we came to the end of the race, I still couldn't figure out if our group was together or if the group up front was the other concurrent race. When we hit the narrow gravely path before the final climb, I got blocked in and couldn't make it to the front. With both calves cramping, I managed to sprint past a good number of riders on the final climb but it really didn't matter, I didn't make the top 15.

Overall, it was a good day: I had a good time, got my feet wet in European racing, and saw where I need to improve. The race commenator even introduced me as the "New American" to the crowd.

And you know, it's funny. Driving away from the race, the foregone smile returns and you can't quite remember those negative thoughts you had earlier...