Whitney Point Race Report

Testing the Waters

The Whitney Point Road Race is one of the classics on my annual racing schedule. I've missed the event maybe a couple times since 1992. I've ridden the 26-mile course, the 50-mile course, in rain and in sun. I've even ridden the 16-mile time trial course the year that it was a USCF stage race of sorts. That was spring 1993, before I got my racing license, back in the day when USCF races had "citizen" categories, and I managed to take first place in my age group, one of my very few wins.

Attending this year's race would be more about nostalgia and fun than serious competition. I'm averaging a bike ride about every two weeks, and I haven't done any intensity above tempo. Whitney Point would hopefully provide a stress-free "welcome back" to bike racing.

I would be doing the 26-mile version this year. I love the 50-mile course, but with that crew, I'd get dropped very early and likely ride 35 miles by myself. I packed up all the little things I've learned over the years can make a bike race really enjoyable. I had a cooler packed with a recovery shake and rice, beans, and chicken leftovers from a night out at La Cena, a local Mexican restaurant. I filled a Nalgene bottle with cool water and stuck a washcloth in to soak for a nice post-race shower. On my way out the door, I was searching for my sandals for lounging after the race when I happened upon my bike shoes. I hadn't packed them the night before and could have very easily left without them if I hadn't accidentally seen them. I haven't raced in so long, even my packing skills are rusty!

Bill and I drove to the race with pirate sea shanties (what else?) playing on the stereo. Some of those pirates had really dirty mouths. The trip reminded me of countless race trips we've taken before, carefully managing the pre-race music to keep it mellow enough not to stir up and waste adrenaline before we would really need it.

I went through the usual paces before the race. Bathroom. Registration. Assemble bike. Pump tires. Undress. Dress. (This reminds me: I have been thinking I should write a book about bike racing called "Between the Doors", an allusion to dropping trou and gearing up while ducking for cover between the doors on a four-door car. Alas, we came in Bill's pickup truck this time, so I could only manage a "Behind the Door".) Sunscreen. Ride. Bathroom. Go to start. How many times have I gone through this ritual before? A number approaching 250, probably.

Forty-four of us rolled off the start line in fantastic weather. The neutral climb to start allowed us all some time to chat. Many familiar faces rode around me. On the usually uneventful 11-mile stretch of riverside flat before the first major climb, the lone tandem in the group rolled off the front. Tandems usually don't get too much respect in a race like this, as everyone assumes that they'll just get caught on the climbs. They became a small dot a couple minutes up the road, and we all rolled along fairly easily with some quick spurts now and again. Soon enough, the right turn onto the climb came into view. The tandem was closer now, but still up the road, working with one other guy who had bridged up to them.

We swept right onto the climb and I pushed on the pedals, wondering how soon I'd crack wide open. I came to a virtual standstill, boxed in by three riders who were less ready for the hill than I was. I checked left then swooped around, stood up, and jumped back up to the group heading away up the hill. My legs felt fresh and light.

I managed to maintain contact with the group for most of the main climb, though a small group was getting away from the rest of us. I was surprised that I felt relatively good. Though I haven't been riding, I've been doing a few high-rep sets of lightweight squats in the mornings, and it was obvious that they have kept my legs in the game, at least for short durations. I glanced at my heart rate monitor. 195. Yikes. Sure enough, it was obvious that my legs were fresh and my aerobic system relatively untrained. Rarely when I'm training regularly do I see numbers that high. Still though, I felt fine, but my legs were near their limit. I settled in with Bill and a couple other guys, and over a roller at the top of the climb, we'd lost some ground to the main group, but we were coming up on the wheel of the tandem. We passed them briefly on the uphill, but then, predictably, they came rocketing past us on a short downslope. I stuck like glue to their wheel as they yanked us back to the group. With the main climb behind us and only short rollers to go before a long downhill, I knew the tandem would easily catch the main group before long. I settled in behind them like a pilot fish behind a shark, enjoying the slower pace up the hills, but then feeding on the remnants of riders they'd eat up on the downhills.

Sure enough, as we reached the bottom and turned right onto a flat section, the tandem had caught and passed the group. I gave up their wheel to Bill and settled back into the group. Suddenly the rubber band stretched taught. The tandem poured on the speed and in no time they were disappearing up the road. I saw Bill frantically hanging on, all over his bike recruiting every last muscle to try to keep their wheel. Gaps opened behind me. Gaps opened in front of me. Our group of nearly fifteen had shattered into several groups of two and three. My legs popped wide open as I hit 30mph while briefly trying to match pace with the tandem. That was all I had.

We hit the next turn and things started to come back together. The tandem eased off a bit, and the rest of us clawed our way back. A small handful of riders had the gas to drive our group, and the four breakaway companions who'd left us on the big climb lengthened their lead. We were battling for fifth. With most of the big group content to sit on, we just rolled along at a tough tempo, chatting occasionally.

A few short miles later, the penultimate climb loomed into view. In recent past editions of this race, but while doing the 50-mile course that included a mid-course extension, I would come to this point inevitably feeling fresher than my companions. I almost always would have lost contact with the strongest climbers by now, and would have settled in with a small group of riders I could beat on climbs. Nearing this climb, I'd attack, get a gap, frantically hold it on the downside, and then keep the gap up the finishing climb. That is not how it would work out this time. As soon as we hit the hill, the group dropped me hard, with only one other rider and the tandem dropping back further. I rocked my way up the climb, and at the top had managed to maintain contact with Bill, but the others were up the road. We traded pulls downhill and onto the flat. They were watching each other up there and their pace had slowed. I took one last pull to try and get Bill back in touch with them. I got to within spitting distance when Bill came up along side and asked, "Should I go ahead?"

"Yes! Go! Go get them!" I managed to blurt out. He launched and I sputtered along, my engine blown. He took them by surprise part way up the finish climb and stayed ahead of a few, finishing strong. I rolled up the hill and across the line, content in my effort. It was a hard race at times, my experience knowing to hang on the tandem with an iron grip kept me in touch, and I felt far better than I assumed I would have. It was great to know that I'm fit enough to go out and have fun competing with friends.