There was a time when I was a serious young racer. That time passed. It was followed by a time when I struggled to stay on the bike, and to recover from a serious overweight problem. That time too passed. I’ve often stated that one should enter formal competition from time to time. There are things that competition teaches, which can be learned nowhere else.
I was in my late forties when I decided to take my own advice. I was flush with having won the weight battle, and recovered a decent measure of fitness. I could pretty well hold my own with some of the stronger, younger riders. So I decided to enter a race.
I had a choice for this first event. I could purchase a one-day license and declare myself a Category 5 (beginner), or I could enter the Masters race. I figured I was a lot younger than most of the Masters, so I chose to do that. After all, even though I’d been away for a long time, I was hardly a beginner. At least that was my thinking. Bear in mind, my previous racing experience was more than twenty years in my past.
I had, so I thought, many advantages. The race was to take place on roads I knew and rode regularly. I’d have the “home court advantage.” I would be one of the youngest entrants in that particular field. “Sure,” I thought, “I don’t really expect to win the thing, but I should be able to hold my own.”
For those who aren’t familiar, allow me to pause a moment and paint a picture of a typical men’s Masters racer. This man is in his middle or late middle age. He is usually fairly affluent. He has a racing background. A serious racing background. Typically, this man is a former professional racer, with sufficient time to train, practice, and race frequently. He was once an extremely powerful rider, and he is not far from that now.
I should have been more wary. I got my first clue on race day. I was nearby when the started called the Category 3 racers to the line for instructions. She addressed the young Cat 3s, saying, “Listen up! We will be starting the men’s Masters ten minutes after we start you. This is dumb, but that’s the way it is. When they catch you, and they will, please pull aside and give them the road. They will pass you, and you may continue to race. You won’t see them again.”
Yikes! That meant that this official fully expected the Masters (the old men) to make up a ten minute start on these young guys! Ten minutes! Were kids really that slow these days? I looked at the Cat 3 crowd. No, they didn’t look like they were in poor shape, or likely to be slow. They looked, in fact, about like Cat 3s had looked way back when I was one. Way back when I was struggling to stay with the pack in Cat 3! “Oh well, we’ll see what we shall see,” I thought.
That call went for the Masters to come to the line. I moved up, astride my mid-level bike. I looked around. These guys looked fit, and a lot leaner than I was. Most of them were aboard some very nice, high-end equipment.
The race started. At first it wasn’t at all bad. We moved out easily, and sorted ourselves into a nice orderly pack. After a couple of miles at a moderate pace, the speed picked up a bit. Still no problems. I was focused on staying in mid-pack, and that was working well. We came to a long rolling descent, and the speed picked up a bit more. The pack was “working” the descent, not jus coasting.
At the end of that long down, there was a funny right turn, up-hill, left turn combination. This was about five miles into the race. Suddenly the whole pack “hit the gas.” The pace increased dramatically, and I was struggling to hang on to the back of the pack. This, just five miles into the first lap. And this was to be a two lap race with each lap a bit more than 26 miles.
I hung on grimly, up that (relatively gentle) uphill, gritting my teeth and waiting for the flat that I knew was ahead. I figured I could recoup a bit on the flat. I figured wrong.
As the road leveled, the pack surged ahead, at speeds I’d only ever reached occasionally on level ground. I was dropped.
I have never been a quitter. Somewhere in the back of my head, a voice said, “You are now out for a nice Sunday ride. Relax.” But no. I pushed as hard as I could. I was hoping I could at least be one of those who catch up to the Cat 3s. I kept telling myself, “They can’t be that far ahead. They’re going too fast. I’ll reel them in.” And so I persisted.
I was hurting, and alone. I saw the occasional course marshal at turns. They all smiled and waved at me. Most of them shouted encouraging things, like, “They’re just ahead!” Or, you’re only two minutes back!” Right.
I don’t remember going through the start-finish line the first time. I’d gone to the “World of Pain,” and was taking up permanent residency there. I was just focused on finding that Cat 3 pack and pushing through them. It never happened.
As I came back into the small town the second time, I knew I’d been dropped and trounced, basically “broomed out.” But I was, at least for my own self respect, going to finish. I was rolling down the street, approaching the last turn, less than a half mile from the finish when I became aware of something. There was a large pack of racers coming up behind me!
I looked back at them. Wholey owned and operated! It was the Masters race! I was about to be lapped!
No way in the world was I going to let that happen!
I was hurting, but it wasn’t far. I leaned over and summoned all I had to push the bike faster. I made the turn at the ragged edge of traction, and the pack was close behind. They were gaining on me fast now, as they began their own final surge. I put every last bit I had into the cranks, and went blasting over the line, just a half-bike length ahead of the leader of that rapidly overtaking mob… And then the fun began.
You see, I had a race number on. One that matched the race I’d just led over the finish line. None of the officials at the finish knew I’d been dropped. Of course there was an official in the support truck who had tracked any drops and withdraws. But he wasn’t there yet.
I was unaware of the developing shouting match back at the line. I was whupped, and silently congratulating myself for just finishing the whole rotten deal, and for getting out of the way of the pack.
Imagine my surprise. I rolled to a stop. I stood and recovered my breath, and then remounted and turned around to ride back. (After all, I had to go that way to get back to my truck.) As I approached the line, I was suddenly surrounded by a bunch of people, most of them yelling. Yelling at me.
As soon as I figured out what was going on, I stopped the shouting pretty quickly. “No,” I said. I wasn’t even close to first. I’d been dropped and was just trying to get out of the way and keep from getting lapped.”
There were some disgusted looks on some faces, and satisfied ones on others. Most folks relaxed, and several other arguments took place. These last were the usual end-of-race wrangles between the legitimate finishers. One official did come up to me and ask, quietly, “If you were dropped that bad, what were you doing on the course?”
“Finishing,” I said. I figured, if he didn’t understand that, there was no use explaining it to him.
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