This Sunday marks the official kickoff of the Mid-Atlantic bike racing season, with the 50-mile Monster Cross at Pocahontas State Park. I did this event last year with poor results, retiring after one lap with a busted bike and absolutely no idea why anybody would ever voluntarily ride a bike on dirt.
But after some significant equipment changes and a whole lot more time riding off-pavement, I was feeling ready-er. And good thing, too, because after this weekend there's not a single weekend without a race until May.
But 12 days ago, I snuck out for a late afternoon ride and wrecked. The 'cross bike seized underneath me (caught on a root, maybe?) and I went flying, landing on my right side and whacking my head into the dirt. The Garmin's accident sensor started wailing, and in an effort to kill that horrendous noise, I forced myself up and dusted off quickly.
I knew I was hurt, but I had full range-of-motion, and the head-hit wasn't hard enough for me to be concerned (the helmet did its job). But of course, more important was to determine if I could successfully get back to the car on the bike. Astonishingly, though the handlebar and tape were destroyed, everything else was fine. Dirty, but fine.
I got on and started home tenderly, constantly probing and testing to see how badly I was really hurt. No holes in the kit, but pain was building under my armpit.
After replacing the heavy aluminum bar with a fancy new carbon bar & matching tape, I finally admitted it might be time to go get an xray a few days later. The doctor confirmed at least one, possibly two broken ribs. But they were clean breaks, and the doc didn't argue with me when I told him I was going to keep riding while I recover (I also didn't bother to tell him I'd put in a couple of crushingly hard rides in the interim).
So there I was, 9 days away from the start of the racing season, nursing a broken rib, and riding 6 - 8 hours per week, when my left knee decided to get in on the action. It started to hurt during a particularly tough ride on the trainer, and I'd damned myself by ignoring the first twinges and pushing through. The next day I could hardly walk, and was scheduled for a 25-mile team ride the following day...which I did anyway.
Fortunately for me, I'd brought Alastair along, and while it was his longest and most aggressive mountain bike ride to date, it was just exactly the level of output that would not risk further injury. Though the knee still hurt a bit, it was not throbbing by the end of the ride, and minor adjustments in pedal-stroke and seating position could alleviate any pressure that started to build.
Last night I pushed a little more, testing the waters of a 30+ mile ride on the trainer. Again, some twinges, but nothing serious, and today the knee actually feels less awful. In addition, the rib pain is abating day-by-day, though I've found myself over-compensating and creating nasty cramps that come and go. In theory, barring any wrecks this weekend at Monster Cross, I should be sufficiently recovered from the break to go hard in the peloton at William & Mary.
Now my daughters are sick, so I'm confident I'll move straight from broken to sick.
2017 is off to an interesting start.
Wednesday, February 15, 2017
Monday, February 06, 2017
A Bit of Science, Mixed with a Dash of Crash
2017 has started off with an aggressive uptick in my training. Probably too aggressive, but I'm having fun. Or I was.
I spent almost all of 2016 on the road bikes. I logged over 5000 miles in the year, and probably 4600 of those were on the road. I chased every moving part on the Blue more than once, rode the Fuji 'til it got stolen, and then was back up & rolling a week later on a new Fuji commuter/back-up-race-bike.
But in the Fall I got a cross bike, and while it was more of a novelty last year, it's really become something of a new obsession this year.
When we took a family trip to MD last year, I took the cheaper road bike. This year I took the cross bike with two sets of wheels: one for road, one for dirt.
I've spent time chasing the setup on the thing, too, and I really got it to the point where I could do just about anything on it, for any amount of time, and just love the experience. I'd dropped from 2x11 to just a single 40T chainring, and the road wheels run an 11-28 cassette while the mud wheels run 11-32. All run through Shimano 105, and yes thankyouverymuch a short cage derailleur works just fine.
But while I was able to leverage my 2016 knowledge to set up the tire pressure on the road wheels, I found myself watching waaaaay too many Internet videos for the cross tires. The videos said most racers run around 30psi, and might dip as low as 25. But when I asked around, I heard what sounded like impossibly low pressures of 20 - 22psi. At that range, the rear tire appears to be flat when I get on...and I only weigh 140lbs.
I'd long theorized that most people can't actually tell what the "right" pressure is, and that outside of an extremely narrow window (maybe +/- 2psi), it's either simply too low or simply too high. This theory came from my experience in motorsports, where a .25psi change in tire pressure can result in a net suspension change of 25lb-in. Bearing in mind that a Miata goes from "compliant" to "rock-hard" with a 50lb-in suspension change, I decided to test my theory.
I started my test by just running the bike at a fixed pressure: 22psi front & rear. I did this not-very-scientifically for about the last month or so on a pair of Clement BOS tires mounted on Easton EA90XD road-tubeless wheels. I found the setup to be absolutely buttery smooth on cobbles and gravel, but any slight bump went straight into the rim. On dirt & grass, 22 seemed to offer fantastic traction, as well, so it seemed like a great setup.
But then I rode with some teammates who were on matched bikes, but clearly much higher pressures, as their rear tires looked rigid. I noticed they were far less cautious in picking their lines through roots & rocks than I, so I figured it might be worth some further experimentation.
A bit of research suggested I might consider a 45/55 front/rear air-pressure split, so I aired the front to 26psi and the rear to 28. It was horrible: wildly bumpy on cobblestones, the tires meandered through gravel, and worse yet: roots still went straight through to the rim. But on smooth surfaces, the low-rolling-resistance made me faster than ever.
Friday afternoon I split the difference and ran 24 front / 25 rear and tried again. Once again, the bike wanted to wander on gravel, but seemed far more planted on cobblestones, while still offering a fair amount of speed on pavement. I found the bike to be very controllable on hard-pack dirt, too, but before I could find any grass to test...
I crashed hard. I guess after 8000 miles I was overdue for a big one. I was coming out of a long smooth trail, eyes up and moving fast, when it felt like something just grabbed and stopped the back wheel. Not like a lock-up, but like it snagged on something. I had just enough time to register the increased resistance before I went flying.
I've played enough sports in my time to know not to stick my arms out, and while I don't know exactly how I landed, I know it was hard enough to bend my handlebars around and smack my head on the ground hard enough to give me a good headache. So I avoided the common wrist & collarbone injuries, but there may be a rib or two that's not quite what it used to be.
The good news is I was able to ride out and get back to my car. The bad news is I don't know exactly what pulled me off the bike, so I don't know how to avoid it next time. Well, that and the need for a new helmet & handlebar. And possibly some ribs. But other than that...
So now I'm on a mandatory rest day off the bike. I rode yesterday outside to see my general condition, and while I felt ok then, I do not feel ok today. Racing season starts in 2 weeks. Yay timing.
I spent almost all of 2016 on the road bikes. I logged over 5000 miles in the year, and probably 4600 of those were on the road. I chased every moving part on the Blue more than once, rode the Fuji 'til it got stolen, and then was back up & rolling a week later on a new Fuji commuter/back-up-race-bike.
But in the Fall I got a cross bike, and while it was more of a novelty last year, it's really become something of a new obsession this year.
When we took a family trip to MD last year, I took the cheaper road bike. This year I took the cross bike with two sets of wheels: one for road, one for dirt.
I've spent time chasing the setup on the thing, too, and I really got it to the point where I could do just about anything on it, for any amount of time, and just love the experience. I'd dropped from 2x11 to just a single 40T chainring, and the road wheels run an 11-28 cassette while the mud wheels run 11-32. All run through Shimano 105, and yes thankyouverymuch a short cage derailleur works just fine.
But while I was able to leverage my 2016 knowledge to set up the tire pressure on the road wheels, I found myself watching waaaaay too many Internet videos for the cross tires. The videos said most racers run around 30psi, and might dip as low as 25. But when I asked around, I heard what sounded like impossibly low pressures of 20 - 22psi. At that range, the rear tire appears to be flat when I get on...and I only weigh 140lbs.
I'd long theorized that most people can't actually tell what the "right" pressure is, and that outside of an extremely narrow window (maybe +/- 2psi), it's either simply too low or simply too high. This theory came from my experience in motorsports, where a .25psi change in tire pressure can result in a net suspension change of 25lb-in. Bearing in mind that a Miata goes from "compliant" to "rock-hard" with a 50lb-in suspension change, I decided to test my theory.
I started my test by just running the bike at a fixed pressure: 22psi front & rear. I did this not-very-scientifically for about the last month or so on a pair of Clement BOS tires mounted on Easton EA90XD road-tubeless wheels. I found the setup to be absolutely buttery smooth on cobbles and gravel, but any slight bump went straight into the rim. On dirt & grass, 22 seemed to offer fantastic traction, as well, so it seemed like a great setup.
But then I rode with some teammates who were on matched bikes, but clearly much higher pressures, as their rear tires looked rigid. I noticed they were far less cautious in picking their lines through roots & rocks than I, so I figured it might be worth some further experimentation.
A bit of research suggested I might consider a 45/55 front/rear air-pressure split, so I aired the front to 26psi and the rear to 28. It was horrible: wildly bumpy on cobblestones, the tires meandered through gravel, and worse yet: roots still went straight through to the rim. But on smooth surfaces, the low-rolling-resistance made me faster than ever.
Friday afternoon I split the difference and ran 24 front / 25 rear and tried again. Once again, the bike wanted to wander on gravel, but seemed far more planted on cobblestones, while still offering a fair amount of speed on pavement. I found the bike to be very controllable on hard-pack dirt, too, but before I could find any grass to test...
I crashed hard. I guess after 8000 miles I was overdue for a big one. I was coming out of a long smooth trail, eyes up and moving fast, when it felt like something just grabbed and stopped the back wheel. Not like a lock-up, but like it snagged on something. I had just enough time to register the increased resistance before I went flying.
I've played enough sports in my time to know not to stick my arms out, and while I don't know exactly how I landed, I know it was hard enough to bend my handlebars around and smack my head on the ground hard enough to give me a good headache. So I avoided the common wrist & collarbone injuries, but there may be a rib or two that's not quite what it used to be.
The good news is I was able to ride out and get back to my car. The bad news is I don't know exactly what pulled me off the bike, so I don't know how to avoid it next time. Well, that and the need for a new helmet & handlebar. And possibly some ribs. But other than that...
So now I'm on a mandatory rest day off the bike. I rode yesterday outside to see my general condition, and while I felt ok then, I do not feel ok today. Racing season starts in 2 weeks. Yay timing.
Friday, January 06, 2017
NYD with Ben King: "It's not a race, but it's definitely a race"
Last year I found out about the annual NYD ride the day before it happened. Ok, I guess technically "two years ago", but I found out about the 2016 NYD ride on Dec 31, 2015. I had ridden to work that day and cut out early to grab some extra miles with the RABA crew. All told, I'd put down about 65 miles with luggage & fenders. I was not prepared to throw down the next day.
But I showed up and learned the meaning of pain, spending the first 5 miles sprinting and stopping with the accordion train, and then bridging from group to group to catch the leaders at about mile 12. By the time I got to them, I was spent, and I opted to take the 30-mile short route as I watched the peloton speed away.
I didn't know, at the time, that there was a pro-tour rider there. I also didn't know just how "serious" this event was.
I learned some valuable lessons about navigating a bike field of that size, and vowed never to start that far back in so large a group again.
This year (dammit, ok: last year) with the event looming, I focused my post-marathon training on preparing for this non-race race. I had a better sense of who Ben King was, and had seen that local hero Edward Anderson was planning to join. It was gonna be a hard roll. But since it was being hosted by another local race team, I wanted to represent the best I could.
My plan was to survive the first 40 miles and then drop off into the comfort and security of the casual guys. I hadn't put down a 40+ mile ride in weeks, and most days I've been bonking right at the 40 mark of my overall commute mileage. 40. That was the plan.
Over and over again, that did not seem feasible. These guys hit 25 in the first half mile and only accelerated from there. There was no neutral, no rollout, no casual conversation pace. Just hammer and hammer harder.
The guidance I'd gotten for this year, though, was to stay on the peloton if possible. If the guy in front of you gets dropped, you are also dropped. I moved up into the thick of it quickly, found the center lane (when it existed), and stayed out of the air.
The first 3-rider break came at about 15 miles. They gained about a football field of space and held it for about a mile. I decided to see if I could bridge it, and as I was coming toward the front of the chase, a gap opened at wheel 5. I tucked back into line to keep the group from fracturing further, and we eventually reeled the break back in.
But that hurt, and just 2 miles later I was pulling. This was not a pattern I could repeat. For the next 20 miles or so, I sat into the group, getting close to the front but not fighting for the lead. And another pattern began to emerge: whenever Ben King came off the front, the guy two back from him would sprint. Sitting back in the group meant constantly looking for a Dimension Data jersey to jig left and then responding an attack that you knew was coming, but wasn't yet happening. That pattern started to take on an unsustainable frequency, and fortunately died just prior to the 40 mile mark.
But then 40 miles came and went. At 26+ mph, too. And I was still in it, and not feeling too awful. I decided to hold in to 50 and see. Around this time, my left calf decided it was done: the muscle seized and would not come back to me. Every time I had to sprint it said NO. Quite firmly, too. I changed my pedal-stroke and kept rolling, eventually finding a posture that would allow me to come off the saddle when I needed.
I kept waiting for either an impossibly-strong attack or a slackening of pace, but the Garmin kept showing a dead-steady 26.1 mph average. There was pretense of going neutrally through turns, but that was only an excuse to rocket out the other side. 45 came and went. 50 came and went. I was astonished to still be with the leaders and decided to see just how long this would last.
A mere 1.3 miles later came a hill that sent me backward. It wasn't particularly long or steep, but just steep and long enough that, at 51+ miles, my legs were not interested in climbing. My heart rate went deep into the red, and at the languid pace of just 19mph I watched the peloton roll by. This was it, and I was happy. I would fade back, find my teammates, and enjoy a much more relaxed pace to the end.
Except one of my teammates was still on the back-end of the peloton. Shit.
I yoyoed hard off the back for a while, ignoring the pain and the gasping-fish breathing, and clawed back on. I had remembered from last year's Jefferson Cup that spending an extra 8% to hold onto the group would have saved me 16% overall work after being dropped. I was tired and not interested in doing 16% more ANYTHING.
The next 2 miles were utter hell, but I began to recognize the roads and knew we were getting closer to the end. If I'd made it this far, goddammit I was going to be there to see the sprint to the finish.
Somehow I worked back through the group and ended up on the peg in a roll-through rotation. When I rolled off, the next dude jumped, and freaking NOBODY FOLLOWED HIM. No way I was letting a lone sprinter charge off the front with less than 10 miles left, so I jumped on his wheel while the group hauled us in. I figured that energy burst would ruin my plans, but it invigorated me. I found my teammate in the group and glued myself to his wheel.
The final set of turns into the airpark were remarkably uneventful. We were less than a mile from the end, and nobody was out of the saddle...yet. I tried to start moving forward, but still wanted to have a little something to play with at the bitter end. I missed the invisible cue to sprint, and wouldn't have had much for it anyway, but did get out of the seat for the last block or two and ended up finishing the 64 mile ride in 2:25, with an average overall speed of 26.1 mph.
How the hell I survived it is still a mystery, but I'm pretty jazzed to get the racing season under way. #rockthefrog
But I showed up and learned the meaning of pain, spending the first 5 miles sprinting and stopping with the accordion train, and then bridging from group to group to catch the leaders at about mile 12. By the time I got to them, I was spent, and I opted to take the 30-mile short route as I watched the peloton speed away.
I didn't know, at the time, that there was a pro-tour rider there. I also didn't know just how "serious" this event was.
I learned some valuable lessons about navigating a bike field of that size, and vowed never to start that far back in so large a group again.
This year (dammit, ok: last year) with the event looming, I focused my post-marathon training on preparing for this non-race race. I had a better sense of who Ben King was, and had seen that local hero Edward Anderson was planning to join. It was gonna be a hard roll. But since it was being hosted by another local race team, I wanted to represent the best I could.
My plan was to survive the first 40 miles and then drop off into the comfort and security of the casual guys. I hadn't put down a 40+ mile ride in weeks, and most days I've been bonking right at the 40 mark of my overall commute mileage. 40. That was the plan.
Over and over again, that did not seem feasible. These guys hit 25 in the first half mile and only accelerated from there. There was no neutral, no rollout, no casual conversation pace. Just hammer and hammer harder.
The guidance I'd gotten for this year, though, was to stay on the peloton if possible. If the guy in front of you gets dropped, you are also dropped. I moved up into the thick of it quickly, found the center lane (when it existed), and stayed out of the air.
The first 3-rider break came at about 15 miles. They gained about a football field of space and held it for about a mile. I decided to see if I could bridge it, and as I was coming toward the front of the chase, a gap opened at wheel 5. I tucked back into line to keep the group from fracturing further, and we eventually reeled the break back in.
But that hurt, and just 2 miles later I was pulling. This was not a pattern I could repeat. For the next 20 miles or so, I sat into the group, getting close to the front but not fighting for the lead. And another pattern began to emerge: whenever Ben King came off the front, the guy two back from him would sprint. Sitting back in the group meant constantly looking for a Dimension Data jersey to jig left and then responding an attack that you knew was coming, but wasn't yet happening. That pattern started to take on an unsustainable frequency, and fortunately died just prior to the 40 mile mark.
But then 40 miles came and went. At 26+ mph, too. And I was still in it, and not feeling too awful. I decided to hold in to 50 and see. Around this time, my left calf decided it was done: the muscle seized and would not come back to me. Every time I had to sprint it said NO. Quite firmly, too. I changed my pedal-stroke and kept rolling, eventually finding a posture that would allow me to come off the saddle when I needed.
I kept waiting for either an impossibly-strong attack or a slackening of pace, but the Garmin kept showing a dead-steady 26.1 mph average. There was pretense of going neutrally through turns, but that was only an excuse to rocket out the other side. 45 came and went. 50 came and went. I was astonished to still be with the leaders and decided to see just how long this would last.
A mere 1.3 miles later came a hill that sent me backward. It wasn't particularly long or steep, but just steep and long enough that, at 51+ miles, my legs were not interested in climbing. My heart rate went deep into the red, and at the languid pace of just 19mph I watched the peloton roll by. This was it, and I was happy. I would fade back, find my teammates, and enjoy a much more relaxed pace to the end.
Except one of my teammates was still on the back-end of the peloton. Shit.
I yoyoed hard off the back for a while, ignoring the pain and the gasping-fish breathing, and clawed back on. I had remembered from last year's Jefferson Cup that spending an extra 8% to hold onto the group would have saved me 16% overall work after being dropped. I was tired and not interested in doing 16% more ANYTHING.
The next 2 miles were utter hell, but I began to recognize the roads and knew we were getting closer to the end. If I'd made it this far, goddammit I was going to be there to see the sprint to the finish.
Somehow I worked back through the group and ended up on the peg in a roll-through rotation. When I rolled off, the next dude jumped, and freaking NOBODY FOLLOWED HIM. No way I was letting a lone sprinter charge off the front with less than 10 miles left, so I jumped on his wheel while the group hauled us in. I figured that energy burst would ruin my plans, but it invigorated me. I found my teammate in the group and glued myself to his wheel.
The final set of turns into the airpark were remarkably uneventful. We were less than a mile from the end, and nobody was out of the saddle...yet. I tried to start moving forward, but still wanted to have a little something to play with at the bitter end. I missed the invisible cue to sprint, and wouldn't have had much for it anyway, but did get out of the seat for the last block or two and ended up finishing the 64 mile ride in 2:25, with an average overall speed of 26.1 mph.
How the hell I survived it is still a mystery, but I'm pretty jazzed to get the racing season under way. #rockthefrog
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)