FoCo Fondo (July 21, 2024)

Photo by Tyler Philips @tylerphillipsphoto

I want to start at the end. Because what happened was a true highlight of my already unforgettable day. In the moment (and for the next two hours of driving home), I felt like I had won the Olympics or something. We rolled into the finish “corridor” (I’ll explain the quotes here later) as a group of 5, and I won a legit bunch sprint! Of course, not for the win, but only a 33rd place overall. But you gotta start somewhere, right? Or it might become the peak of my “career,” who knows. Either way — there’s a lot to celebrate!

But right before the sprint… Nope, let’s go back to the start and follow the timeline.

A month before the race

Well, that’s been a disaster. Ever since I crashed at The Hundo, everything, everywhere, all at once, was falling apart. For a few days, while the stitches were still fresh and disturbing, I was taking it easy. But as soon as I felt better, I went for a few longer rides, and out of nowhere came a severe saddle soreness, which took me out for one more week. And then… oh, boy.

Went for a ride on Friday, outside. The outside viciously rejected me. On the very first climb, it became clear that my fitness and motivation had rolled back to the level of “Netflix and a bucket of raspberry ice cream.” I had less than 24 hours left until the start of my A-race of the year. Going to Gering, NE, would’ve been a waste of time and money. It’s decided: the preparation for the next event must begin, starting tomorrow.

Tomorrow (Saturday), it turned out that not only a derailleur battery has died, but a shitty charger is broken as well. But that’s no reason to be dejected. If we learned anything from yesterday, it is to turn on a dime and pretend that was the plan for the start. Done. We’re taking a single-speed mountain bike and going far and high because naturally, if the brain can’t keep the equipment in order, the legs shall suffer. It was only a 30-minute drive on a highway from my house to the trailhead, but we didn’t make it. A sizable screw went deep into the left rear tire of my truck. I dropped the car at the tire service, along with the remainder of my motivation. Luckily, Ute Valley was only 5 minutes from there. Well, that’s not quite my venue, but it's better than sitting and waiting for the car to get fixed up. Another elegant turn on the same dime I’ve been abusing since yesterday, and off we go. Not the best day possible, but I'm staying afloat.

Unfortunately, there was one more day left in that cursed week. Sunday began suspiciously fine. In two hours spent on Red Rocks Canyon trails, I haven’t had a single accident and even made one wise decision to walk the top of Hannah Montana this time. Just to be safe. Well, that, I suppose, exhausted my limit of wisdom for the day. On the way back home, I picked up my full-squish from the bike shop and had already promised my older kid to go for a ride with him later in the afternoon. Just one small thing I had to do before that — go for a quick ride with his little brother. To the lake and back, not gonna take long.

We were enjoying a breezy day, cruising at ~5 mph, chatting, and thinking about ice cream at Lolley’s. My legs were slightly bored, though. Especially those muscles right above the hamstrings, which usually require a steady gradient to feel involved in the process. Those muscles decided to manufacture the gradient for themselves. Sent a signal to the arms, those, in turn, lifted a front wheel above the head. The head participated in all this only as a balancing weight for the body but not as a commanding center of the operation. But even with the head’s help, the balance could not be kept. The initiating muscle took all the impact from the gravity forces.

Here comes Monday. I’m in bed again. 99% chance I’m skipping the 2024 Kowtown Gravel, which is in 5 days. Three weeks until Fort Collins. Remember: plans are made to be changed.

A week before the race

The last two weeks were spent mainly in bed, and I only did a few easy rides (I’m talking granny-gear-all-the-way-easy because producing higher power still caused a lot of pain in the tailbone). So, there was nothing to taper from come race week. On Tuesday, I went on a tempo ride with Aaron and Ryan. And I’ve been dropped hard on every single climb. Not that there’s anything embarrassing in that per se, given I came straight back from the couch, and these two are extremely strong riders. But I’d expect myself to be able to muster everything I have to hold the wheel at least once (or at least to have the self-confidence I can do that), even though it means I’ll be paying for that effort for the rest of the ride. But there was nothing I could do, and that just felt worrisome. The next day, Brian and I went for a longer and calmer ride, and that one didn’t feel much better. I wasn’t feeling bad, but more as if someone or something ripped me off of my super-power, and I’m still fit as Green Lantern, but I can’t quite lighten things up anymore.

All in all, I came to peace with the fact that the Sunday race might be a good long ride for me, and it’s not worth it to have any expectations, let alone goals, whatsoever. “Approach with curiosity” was all I had left.

Race day

Before the start

I woke up at 3:30 a.m. to drive to Fort Collins, pick up a starting packet, and hopefully squeeze some warmup in. The warmup thing — I begin to value that more and more recently. Mad Gravel style (riding for two hours from my house to the start line) is arguably an over-doing. But even that was better than a cold start.

The number plates were small, and the chips were positioned vertically, so it was a perfect fit for wrapping around the head tube. Ultimate aerodynamic efficiency. Did the same a few months ago at Pony Xpress. Did it here. As I found out after the race, my chip had not been read at any of the checkpoints, and my result had not been recorded. Because apparently (not that they didn’t tell us, but who takes it seriously), the chip should be away from the frame. Yeah, we’re paying a shit ton of money for the most aerodynamic equipment so that we can slap a big fat piece of carton onto our handlebars. Imagine if there were numbers that look like a fin and can be mounted to your seatpost. That would be cool, right? Maybe by 2025, someone will invent that, LOL.

Rollout

Why? Why is that necessary? 200 riders for a 100-mile distance that I was doing. 600(!) riders in a 60-miler. And all that mass goes straight into a 6-foot wide puddle 10 seconds from the start. With almost no chance of avoiding that. Immediate congestion and a puck of mud on your derailleur for the rest of the perfectly dry and dusty day. And I’m not done with this rant yet. To be continued at the finish…

Go time

Photo by Tyler Philips @tylerphillipsphoto

Let’s get positive, though. The gun went off, and out of nowhere, I felt just fine. No, I actually felt great. Sat on someone’s wheel to get out of the pit and chase down the peloton. I made the first selection and stayed with the group that had leaders in plain sight for the first hour of the ride. On paper, that’s the best start of the race I have ever had. The group had about a dozen riders. But not everyone was willing to do the work, and around mile 20, we were sick of each other enough to start poking around with an imaginary stick. On one of the short, punchy climbs, three other riders and I went hard and made a split. I went to the front and pushed hard, willing to do everything I could to make that stick.

The first outcome was that I had to deal with a silly dog running around on the road and getting too close to riders’ ankles. I could see her jumping at the rider far up the road, and now she was getting ready to play with us. But I came prepared. A while ago I actually listened to a podcast with a canine expert who suggested a couple of ways to deal with the dogs when you’re out there running or cycling, and one of the methods is to yell at them. As loud and aggressive as you possibly can. Haha, watch how it’s done. Poor thing backed off immediately, and the rest of the group, while being thankful to me for taking care of the predator, was so intimidated by the genuine aggression that no one had the courage to say thank you. That’s alright, folks, I got you :–)

The split didn’t stick though, we’ve been pulled back pretty soon. Here, another small but notable event happened. I was the last wheel at the wrong moment. A left turn into a far worse road than the one we were on caught many people off guard, and I found myself distanced from the front of the group. Losing the wheel so early in the race was absolutely not an option. The chase was on, whatever it takes. This was the first time on the day when I was grateful (to myself) for making the right decision and upgrading an old and trusted 40-tooth chainring for a 44t for this race. If I were still spinning my tried and trusted 40t — the race would’ve been over for me right here. But now, I live to fight another day.

Even though it's a bit of a risk, I'm gonna try to keep this chainring until the end of the season and do the second year of Grassroots Gravel on it. An infamous 12-mile climb might kick me in the teeth for doing that, but if I survive — I'll consider that alone as a win. FTP tests are a great affirmation of my progress, but real-world proof is worth a lot more.

Setback

Around mile 30, we entered a steep, rutted double-track. This was the first time of the day I had to use lower gears, and I heard some severe rubbing coming from the drivetrain. I pulled over, dismounted, and did a quick visual inspection. Everything looked pretty normal, so I’ve decided to keep riding and see how/if the situation develops. But that quick step into the wet rut was enough to get mud in my cleats that I couldn’t clip in and couldn’t shake it off either. With the help of extensive cursing, I made it to the end of the double-track, but the group was far gone. Another guy dropped his chain at the top, so there were two of us with the same goal. And he was damn strong, he didn’t need my help to pull them back, I could (and should’ve) just sit on his wheel and “chill”. Relatively chill, though. Even though I got a free ride, it was painfully hard to keep up with him. And on top of all the mishaps, here I misjudged the situation. I decided to let him go, thinking that I could get back to the group by myself, even if it took a few extra minutes. Never saw this guy and many others from that group ever again. Lesson learned, what else can I say.

Back to my rant about mud at the start. It turned out I just got a cake of that crap in my derailleur cage, and it caused rubbing in lower gears. It’s gravel, I get it, and I’m not a softy. I just wanted to emphasize once again that the start would’ve been better without that dirt.

The silver lining is that this unfortunate chain of events had nothing to do with my fitness. So, the fight was not over. I kept riding strong despite being solo, but 10-15 miles later, I was caught by a group of three folks, and I was happy to contribute to their hard work. We’ve been sharing pulls for a while, but at mile 58 came the aid station. Two guys decided to stop for a water refill, but Lindsey and I kept going. Here came the moment when I suffered the most on that day.

When you’re doing a pull, it’s meant to be tough. That’s how things work. You suck it up and do your job. But when you drop back and it still hurts the same amount — that’s a different kind of pain. And that's where I was. I persevered, but I was on my absolute limit. Spoke to Lindsey after the race, and she said that she was fine doing more work as she could hear me huffing and puffing from behind. I don’t know if that helped because, let’s be honest — she’s mighty strong but tiny, I just couldn’t get a lot of draft behind her.

But I got lucky. Deus ex machina to the rescue! We got stuck at the train crossing for about 2 minutes. Not only did we get a 16-year-old kid to join our forces (he was stuck there with us), but two dudes who stopped for water caught back up. Now, with a solid group of five, it promised to be enjoyable again.

We’ve lost one dude, but the four of us kept working together until the last “climb” of the day. I put the word “climb” in quotes because, to be honest, it’s a pretty flat area, and these climbs are just little bumps a few hundred meters long. But you gotta work with what you have. Knowing that it’s basically all downhill from here to the finish (provided it’s 20 miles long downhill, but nonetheless), I figured that I could drop half of the group. Why would I do that? Is it because it's an intelligent racing tactic? No, because it's fun. I knew Lindsey wouldn’t stay with me on a climb but would catch back up in no time as soon as it was over. So, I wasn’t worried about being alone for the last big stretch. And my plan worked flawlessly until it didn’t, ha-ha. We did drop the dudes, but then, maybe a mile later, we hit the aid station, and I realized that even though I had plenty of liquid carbs in my pack, I desperately needed to refill one bottle with pure water. I stopped, but Lindsey didn’t. And objectively speaking, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stay with her anyway, but now I had zero chance of catching her.

I don’t know where this lady Ami came from, but I didn’t mind a new company. She’s got quite an engine, and I have no clue how in the world she’s been behind me for the first 80 miles of the race. It’s been a pleasure sharing pulls with her. However, at some point, she dropped me.

Regardless of being dropped, this was the moment on that day when I finally admitted to myself how well I was doing. Unbelievably well. I kept my head unit in navigation mode because I didn’t want to know any numbers (like how many miles left, what’s my current average, and what’s the estimated finish time gonna be). I wanted to stay in the moment, do my best, and let it rip. When I saw all the stats after I crossed the finish line, I couldn’t believe I had done so well. But while still out there on the road, I was satisfied enough with the pure perception of my performance. As my kids would say, I was cooking. And that’s pretty darn accurate.

Finish

Roughly five miles before the finish, a strong group of riders passed me, and I happily hopped on their wheels. Remember my attack in the last climb? Well, one of those folks was in that group. For whatever it’s worth.

Over these next few miles, we had one or two punchy hills, and I attacked on every single one of them. I didn’t expect to drop a group (they would reel me back in easily anyway), but I was just curious to see how everyone would respond and maybe make them suffer a little. I believe the terrain like this suits me well. I’m really happy with my repeatability for short, strenuous efforts. I recover from them very quickly and am ready to do one after another. So, I wasn’t worried that these little attacks would harm me. And I did get a feeling that no one in the group was enjoying these bursts. Of course, I might be wrong, and I’m not trying to diminish my opponents by any means. That was my assessment of the situation, but unfortunately, this time, I didn’t have a chance to chat with these folks after the race to hear their story as I did after Pony Xpress.

Another turn of the road, and I saw the bridge. At this point, I knew exactly what was left. Luckily, I was doing my warmup in this area, and that suddenly worked out as a recon of the last mile. I burst up that steepish bridge, knowing once again that it would not hurt me but hopefully would cause damage to some of the others. Right after the bridge, we were turning into the straight finish corridor, so there was not a lot of time to catch a wheel if you lost it (they didn't). I came out of that turn first and kept the pace high enough to stay in control of the situation. No one would deliberately go around me at this point, of course, but I wanted everyone to work hard if they wanted to keep their chances. A quick look back — sure enough, everyone’s on my wheel. We still had a few hundred meters to go, so I was waiting for someone to attack first.

The fireworks began. Two guys came around me. I made a couple of big strokes to get behind them, spent a second or two recovering from that short effort, sensed the moment, and just went for it. I believe I heard behind my back: “That’s it, he’s gone.” I hope it wasn’t a voice in my head. But even if it was, it was right. I took it.

But it’s not over yet

Unexpectedly, to put it mildly, the fence that forms a finishing corridor goes across the road that we are on, shutting down my sprint pace. The volunteer sends us right into that muddy, puddly, loose patch of dirt, which we went through at the start (even worse with wider and deeper puddles on this side). With all the speed I still had at that moment, it’s a miracle I didn’t wipe out the person ahead of me who was carefully finishing their shorter distance race. Why in the world? Oh, I guess I asked that question already. Alright, what the fuck then? I can imagine how sketchy that finish was for the top three guys, who finished a second apart from each other. I don’t understand why it is a problem to put a timing mat in the middle of the street (which is closed for the day anyway), let the riders get done with their business, and let them roll into the finish area slowly and safely.

Just for comparison:

Looking at the numbers

At Mad Gravel, which is also a rolling race with no significant climbs on the course, I held the average speed of 27.5 kph / 17.1 mph (28 kph / 17.4 mph if I exclude the double-track sections) over 80 km / 50 miles. And I was more than happy with that. In my wildest dreams, I was hoping I could hold that speed in Fort Collins for twice the distance, which would keep my total time under 6 hours. When I saw 29.5 kph / 18.3 mph and a total time of 5:33, I could not believe that. That’s insanity. I attribute that result to three main factors:

  1. First and foremost, it’s a fast course, no doubt. And I might have underestimated that factor while setting my expectations.
  2. Also, the last month of no training (with two weeks completely off the bike) might have been a rest that I needed.
  3. And lastly, I’m still learning the ropes of bike racing. One aspect in particular that I keep improving on is knowing how hard I can go without imploding. And I don’t think I’ve touched that ceiling yet.

Summary

This report is already too long. Enough. FoCo Fondo is cool. Go check it out, and despite being all grumpy about it, I might see you there next year.