Race report: Dance of the Chuckleheads

Saturday was a great example of how attitude is everything. I had a road race in the green hills surrounding Livermore. The terrain and scenery is beautiful this time of year, but give it a month or so and this place becomes a whole different world, hot, dry and windy. Evidence of this is the windmill farm in the surrounding hills. Yeah, it's pretty much a wind tunnel most of the year, but Saturday, we were spared the wind and the forecasted rain. You could say it was a nice ride in the countryside.

I will spare you the details of how the race went down blow by blow for two reasons...First, it's like trying to describe in detail and with great enthusiasm the act of drying paint. And second, NOTHING of significance happened. In the opening minutes of the race, one of my fellow pro mountainbikers went out on a solo attack. I knew it might be crazy, but then again, he knows how to go hard from the gun and never let up...it's just how mountainbikers race.

On the beginning of the second lap, three went up the road on the attack, one, yet another pro mountainbiker, and another a close friend of mine. I was in the wrong place on the road to join them (my bad) and if I did, I risked pulling the whole field with me, killing the attack and my legs in the process. My plan was to spare my legs for three of the four laps, sit in and just patrol the front and hope that it would come back together. I had two teammates to help me do this, Joaquim and Harry. Both of them were stars in my mind for keeping me out of the wind.

So with four up the road, at the beginning of lap two of four, the race was effectively over. Sure we had two laps left, and if the cat 3's had any racing sense, the teams might have gotten together and pulled the break back, but they didn't. It was us 100 vs. four of them...simply they had no chance on a flat race like this, but then again, the cat 3's are a bunch of selfish riders, only concerned about themselves. I sent Harry and Joaquim up to the front and try to organize a chase with some other teams, but all that was happening was them slaying themselves and a bunch of clowns tagging along doing nothing.

So, I was riding with a bunch of chuckleheads. I realized that I missed the move, and the race was over, and my attitude went from great to frustrated, riding around with all of these selfish little CHUCKLEHEADS. They won't do anything to help, yet when you try to do something, they squelch it. ARRRRRGH! I sat there, trying in vain to make something happen and killing my legs in the process, but nothing came of it. At that moment, I HATED road racing. I was in no mood to ride smart and stick to the plan or open up a can of mountainbiker whoop ass and ride away from them at the finish.

I gained some composure and realized I had bigger fish to fry later in the season, and this was "just a training race". The race came down to the huge group beating each other up on the final climb to the finish (as usual). I finished in the group in around 15th or so. I am not really sure (and didn't really care).

I lived to fight another day, and I will. I got some great intensity training in. I learned more about how the selfish Chuckleheads won't race smart, just for themselves. Yet all I could think about was fish tacos, mariachi bands and sunsets in Mexico as I rode back to the car. That put me in a better mood. Baja Fresh would have to suffice for now, but you will find me in Mexico, enjoying the real deal, soon I hope. Wanna go?

Addendum: here is the official Tam Racing race report. FYI, I was just clowning around for the photo. Little did I know I would be riding against a bunch of clowns.