Races 3-5: Choisy au Bac, Choisy la Victoire, and Dreslincourt

Here's a brief summary of the past three races:

Choisy au Bac

This is a local race put on in the honor of André Mahe who won the 1949 edition of Paris Roubaix. He was even there at the start to see off the riders. As for me, the legs never showed up to the race and I actually DNF the race. I left the course after around 30 minutes nearly in tears partially because it hurt so badly, and also because I don't like to think of myself as a quitter.

The evening turned out alright when I was able to get my picture with Mr. Mahe and France's beloved "Mr. Eternal Second Place", Raymond Poulidor (Second in the Tour de France 3 times and third place 5 times).

Choisy la Victoire

This race took place two days after the previous and this time the results were better. I managed to sneak into a break away group of about 7 riders that worked well together as we stayed out front for the final 30 miles despite the howling crosswinds. Geared all up for the final sprint to the line, I attempted to accelerate and my legs finally said, "No more, bro!". I had exerted too much in the last hour and half and I was juiced. Despite the lackluster finish, I was super pumped about my performance and placement.

Thad and the McAuley boys (minus Lucas of course) made it to cheer me on!

Dreslincourt

Well, mama said there'd be days like this... I had a mechanical 10 minutes before the race and wasn't able to warm-up or take a look at the circuit. Let's just say the first part of the race was a tough one. On the bright side however, Thad and his sons were there to cheer me on and he took some great pics of me and my suffering.

Cheers!

J

Becoming an Official Flandrien: Day 3

Race Day!

I found in Cycle Sport America, a wonderfully-written British magazine, this article on the The Berg of the Tour of Flanders, the Muur.

Every year, on the first Sunday in April, 92 meters separate one man from history. Ninety-two meters. That's all the height that the second-to-last climb in the Tour of Flanders gains. 92 meters that select the winner of the most charismatic of races in front of the sport's most fanatical fans.

Wielervolk they call them - the bike fans of Flanders. They love the sport of cycling, warts and all. Some love it to distraction, and to join them on the Muur is to worship inside their cathedral. The atmosphere builds for hours as they wait, like electricity building before a storm. When the first riders thunder past, the fans are red-lining with hysteria.

The lightening flash of color passes so quickly and the Muur breathes again, relaxing into a 364-day torpor as just another quiet road over a hill. Sanity is restored. Fans, who moments before were baying like hounds, become fathers and mothers again, sons and daughters. The moment has passed, until next year.

There's no doubt that this is where I wanted to be on race day. I have decided that I've used enough superlatives in describing this weekend. So instead of more words, here are video clips I put together. The first is of the hum before the hysteria of the race. And the second...well, let's just say I join in with the baying of the hounds. As a result, I have probably lost all remaining dignity, but that's ok...

Becoming an Official Flandrien: Day 2

The day of The Ride!

Well, I survived the night as an amateur camper. I woke up and began a full day of carbo loading (one of the reasons I love riding bike!) in preparation for the long ride ahead.

Let me see if I can describe the course and try to try to put the legend into perspective. The race itself starts in Bruge, known as the Venice of the north. The finish is in Ninove, an academic Belgian town about 30 miles west of Brussels. The first 100 miles of the course are pretty flat and rather uninteresting, a nice warm-up ride, until the Flanders countryside turns its head dishes out some of the hardest racing conditions on the planet. 160 miles is a bit much for me, so I decided to bite off the second degree 90 mile version of the course which included all the famous last 16 category climbs and cobbled sections. And interestingly enough, for the entire duration of the ride, I was no farther than 15 miles from the finish in Ninove as the course just winds around the Belgian backroads in search of the the cobble stretches. Every one of the 16 climbs is named, and within the cycling community names such as "Koppenberg", "Paterberg", and the "Kapelmuur" ("muur" translates as "wall") are mentioned in the same reverent tones that accompany the names "Galibier" and "Alp d'Huez" mountains of the Tour de France. Riding over cobblestones is bad, but climbing on them at up to 23% (on short sections) at the end of a race is just devastating (for comparison: a 1 mile 10% climb is likely not surmountable by recreational cyclist http://bikecalculator.com/wattsUS.html). Bike manufactuers often provide the professional teams with specially modified bicycles with reinforced joints, more compliant seat stays for add dampening, and longer wheel-bases to handle the incessant pounding. Welcome to Flanders!

Here is a quick video of me prior to starting the ride:




All told, there was a record crowd on the course for the day. Some 19,000 cycling fans, ranging from shaven legged boy-racers on higpriced carbon bikes to the pant-wearing old codgers on heavy mountain/commuter bikes took to the course to tackle the legend. It was quite a spectacle. So not only were there plenty of people to meet and talk to on the roads, there were large numbers of fans on the side of the course watching the bikes go by and encouraging those struggling to continue. My personal favorite was a very old little gentleman brimming with enthusiasm. This man sat in a lawn chair in full Quickstep team uniform (lycra shorts, jersey, and even the hat). And next to him was a life-size cardboard cutout of Tom Boonen (the Michael Jordan of Belgium cycling) and a large homemade banner written in Flemish. He gave me two enthusiastic thumbs up as I went by. And from there he sat, cheering on every rider that passed. He had me chuckling even a few miles down the road.

The ride was super-well organized with large rest stops along the way to pick up some orange slices, bananas, Belgian pastries, sports drinks, water, granola bars, etc. And usually, atop every significant climb you could find entreprising Belgians selling all sorts of food and goodies. I found these to be great opportunities to guiltlessly eat as many Belgian pastries as I could find. One in particular was a sweet rice baked goodie that had the texture of flan and tasted like nothing I've every had before. Amazing! I'd probably get huge if I lived there.

And as far the ride itself: I'd probably say it was the best 6 hours I've ever spent on my bike - no exageration. I found that I actually somewhat enjoy riding cobblestones. Sure, your backside goes numb after a bit and your entire body starts itching because its vibrating so much, but it takes a certain focus, concentration, and power output that, for me, keeps things interesting. I can see though, that when ridden at a lung-searing race pace, they would be anything but fun. And the climbs, well... they're worth every ounce of respect that they garner. And with all the fans on the side of the road I felt like I was on team Quickstep, racing up the climbs with the peloton chasing me down. I don't think anyone passed me on any of the climbs. I felt like a pro, that is until I saw my final average speed. Haha, we can still dream can't we? The Kapelmuur was the most memorable climb for me. I had to keep yelling for people to walk their bikes on the side of the cobbles as there was no way I was going to walk up that hill. I thought I was going to crash on a few different occassions as my speed neared the tipping point due to the steepness. At the finish line, with all the cameramen lined up, I decided to finish in style with a sprint, crossing the line with both arms raised. I did, until some inconsiderate guy cut me off and almost caused a horiffic spill. I'm pretty sure that photo didn't turn out like I envisioned it. But throughout the past 3 years of cycling, I don't think I've ever had that much fun or smiled more than I did during those 6 hours.

Afterward, I showered and spent some time shopping and hanging out with my Basque friends. Among a mixture of Spanish, English, French, and their native Basque language they were teaching me, I learned that one of the guys frayed his derailleur cable in a collision and rode the remaining 100 miles in one gear! Now that's crazy!

my Basque friends
*Koppenberg photo taken from http://3.bp.blogspot.com

Becoming an Official Flandrien: Day 1

You may have heard me quite excitedly talking about my upcoming cycling trip to the Flanders region in Belgium. Well, let me give you a rundown on one of my most memorable weekends.

So let me give you a bit of background. There are numerous races on the professional cycling calendar, but 8 events really stand atop the rest. These include the 3 grand tours (three-week stage races with the king being le Tour de France) and 5 one-day classics. I am rather partial to the classics. While in the Tour, the riders must endure a relentless varying course over quite a period of time, the classics are often so long and so difficult that you get that same intensity and suffering of a three-week race compressed into 6 hours. For me that is the draw to these events.

So when I saw in a magazine the opportunity to ride Flanders the day before the real event, I was anxiously very interested. Flanders, one of the big classics, is the crown jewel of the sporting year in Belgium where the sport of cycling is king. For a Belgian cycist, winning this race in front of a home crowd is bigger than the world championships and even rivals the olympics.
So I registered online and within a few days I recieved an informatonal packet (in Flemish) and a racing number. All seemed good to go except the question, "Where am I going to stay?" Well, there were numerous bed and breakfasts, hotels, and park benches available, but I decided to give the camping experience a try. Now you must know, the Skyrms are not a big camping family, and I never really spent time at summer camp until I was 20 as a camp councilor, so this was definately going against the norm for me. I headed over to Decathlon, the French version of Dick's Sporting Goods, and picked up a 2-second tent and a sleeping bag. With that and borrowing Adam's GPS, I figured I was all ready to go. I didn't have the power cord to the GPS but I figured with its outstanding battery life I'd be good for one leg of the trip. I booked a half-day from work, threw everything in my tiny car and off I went. Simple right? Maybe too simple...

With the sun shining, Van Halen on the stereo, and the open road in front of me, I decided it was a good time to take the scenic route through northern France into Belgium. So using the GPS I eliminated major highways from my itinerary and begin my serioulsy undirect route. When I noticed that the GPS said my arrival time was approximately 5.5 hours for a 150 mile trip and that I had been following the same truck at 35 mph for too long, I decided there was plenty of scenery to be seen from the highway. And as you probably guessed, it wasn't too long after turning the odometer a few clicks on the highway that I noticed the GPS screen had turned black. That's when my oversight hit me like a brick. "I'm somewhere in northern France, I don't have a clue how to get to my final destination, I don't even know where this road is going, and I don't have any maps!" So trying to think rationally, I figured we used maps before the GPS gadgets came around, so I went searching for maps. I eventually saw a rest area sign ahead and so I pulled off the highway expecting the typical American rest area - with maps. I, however, was way-off. It ended up being an industrial zone with a small airport and no gas stations or anything! So then I nearly got lost getting back onto the main road. Continuing down the highway with my one goal of finding a map, I saw the French version of Wal-Mart go past on my right perched on a hill. So I promptly took the next exit which, of course, wasn't actually an exit but the entry onto a perpendicular highway. After following the curves of the new (and incorrect highway) I manage to find a real exit and backtrack to eventually find the superstore and the treasure - Michelin maps. Let's just say that's when the really poor navigating began.

For those of you who know me, I'm pretty good with directions. I navigate quite well with cardinal directions and it has served me quite well. However, that skill, I am convinced, is only useful in the traffic grid of the midwestern United States. In Europe, everything is relative to the largest city. For instance if you want to get to Choisy la Victoire you "take the road towards Beauvais", the French would say. Well, my geography isn't too good, so let's just say I was hosed. In short, I got lost. I got lost a lot! I now know where Brussels, Gent, Lille, Ninove are relative to just about any city in southern Belgium. Unlike some men, I now have no fear or qualms about asking for directions - in any country or any language.

On arrival (finally), I managed to find my camp site that turned out to be an abandoned industrial park with a patch of weeds here and there. Not the Sheraton, but oh well. I beat down some of the overgrowth and figured that was good enough for my tent. I then decided to figure out who else was as crazy as I, to ride such a course. So I walked over and met my neighbors -two super friendly guys from Holland and a crazy group of 5 from the Basque country in northern Spain.

All told, I still ended up driving for 6 hours, but I got some good memories and stories from it right?

Onward to the ride!

The Day of the Bike

This is one of my favorite moments of the year. With the Tour of Flanders last weekend (which I will share my experiences with you in later posts) and Paris-Roubaix tomorrow, two of the five grand classics of cycling sit inposingl in the middle of April. When most people, especially Americans, think of cycling, the Tour de France and the Lance Livestrong images come to mind. But it must be said that while the Tour is the staple of professional cycling, it is so much more multi-faceted and dynamic in personality than that. To take that view would be like trying to sum up the summer Olympics by the swimming competition. The rest of the cycling calender consists of many different types of races with the 5 "Classics" sitting as monumental one-day tests of strength and will. And it just so happens that my two favorites take place on back-to-back weekends just out my back door. What I find most endearing about these two great races, is truely how difficult they are. Flanders and Roubaix are not only long races in the difficult northern climate but they are also raced on the cobbles. Quite simply, cobblestones are not to be ridden on with a bike. But they do. And it hurts. Paris Roubaix consists of 27 different sections of cobbles, totaling 53 kilometers of the pain inducing little buggers. Its not uncommon for the bikes themselves to be stretched past their limits and will break apart from the riders on them. Yes, with hardly a hill, Paris Roubaix is known as the "Hell of the North" - and rightly so. It's the photos during and directly after the race that best depict the great suffering that is endured. These races find the limit of a man's will. Cycling in its finest hour.

George in Roubaix - taken from velonews.com

This weeknd we are celebrating the bicycle here in Compiègne. Today there have been bike specifc flee markets, amateur races, cyclo tours, hobnobing with professional teams, book signings, and of course, Paris-Roubaix.

I am amazed at the accessability of the professional riders. I gathered some items around today to head off to watch the professional team presentations before tomorrow's start. I found my cycling club teamates and gathered with them behind the stage to meet the riders. The riders' willingness to stop and take pictures with fans, sign autographs, great old friends, etc. was definately above what I have come to expect from athletes in the US. While there may have been one or two exceptions such as Tomas Haussler, the 25 year-old overnight sucess story from Cervelo who looked like he just missed the Bon Jovi World Tour bus and accidently found Cervelo's, the riders almost blended in with the crowd.

One rider in particular I was especially excited to see was George Hincapie. For those of you who don't know, George is from South Carolina and one of the finest riders America has ever produced. Yet he hasn't earned nearly the publicity or fame deserving of his talent because of his loyalty and humility. While he could have gone elsewhere during the finest years of his career in search of more money or opportunity, he decided to remain Lance's loyal servant - doing more for Lances' victories than he will ever be credited for. When I saw him approach the stage entrance, for possibily the final year, in his blue team jacket and signature sunglasss, I couldn't help but feel a little starstruck. He walked up to me, I put my hand out while wishing him good luck for the following day. He warmly shook it, a bit visibly taken aback by the American accent. Still acting as a favorite for the race despite his age, I told him to "Win one for the Stars and Stripes!" He cracked a smile as the crowd pushed him on.

Also on the list of things to do on the day was to meet some of the riders from the orange and blue argyle armada - Garmin Chipotle. This young American-base team is the brainchild of Johnathan Vaughters. American riders in Europe don't often expect to hear their native accent, and when the do, tend to be pretty friendly. This combined with the fact that I keep somewhat uptodate on the team, brought me to wander toward their team bus to meet those on the "inside". I recognized the dark-haired guy walking toward me to be Steven Cozza who I saw race the weekend before in Belgium. I admire someone who prefers to race in the difficult unforgiving classics and asked him about his Flanders experience the weekend before. "Its a great race. It was a lot of fun!" he responded. This young 24 year-old is a wonderfully genuine and nice guy. He then turned the conversation to me and what I was doing in France. It was definately a cool moment to have our nation's best, take the time to talk with me and hear my story. I can't imagine that happening in many other sports. It was then that Will Friskcorn, hearing the American accent, popped his head out of the team bus to shake my hand and introduce himself. Garmin Chipotle won a fan today.

Steven and I

In my humility I must also write that I accidently mistook veteran Bradely Wiggins - Olympic gold medalist, multi world champion, and Tour de France yellow jersey wearer - for another Garmin rider and called him Will...oops! Sorry Mr. Wiggins.

But we were not done yet! Our cycling club, CSC, was one of the particpants that helped organize and put on the pre -race celebrations. Thus they honored our team by allowing the young riders (I considerd myself young) to go onto the presentation stage. There, clad in matching team jerseys, we presented French cycling hero Laurent Jalabert with a medal. Monsieur Jalabert was one of the most decorated French riders in history, owning the number 1 ranking in the 90's. I shook his hand and greated him in French. He returned the favor and had some nice things to say. Now how these things end up working out, I do not know. But of the 30 riders on stage, I was the one next to Laurent. So there my face was, plastered all over the huge jumbotrom and televisions for everyone see as he accepted his award. I couldn't stop smiling, it was too ridiculous.

Well, the day of the bike continues. I am off to watch an amateur race through the town square. I may even get a chance to ride in the commissaires lead car. We will see!

Cheers!