Monthly Archives: July 2011

Do you remember that scene in the movie Napoleon Dynamite where the lady looks at her husband, looks at the sweet model ship on the table, and says “I want that.” Well…that’s how I feel about this recent tweet.

If I win that jersey, no one can stop me from wearing it in local races; I’ve already broken the rules with the whole Big Pink nonsense, so I have no boundaries. My fingers are crossed.

Now, most people would agree that summer is not supposed to involve a clammy chamois. Well screw you, San Francisco, for making tonight’s ride miserable.

Seriously? I never thought I’d say this growing up, but there are times when I wish I still lived in the Central Valley. It’s a magical, unfathomable place where summers actually exist — a place where you aren’t nearly hit by three cars on your mid-July ride because 1. drivers don’t have to peer through Hound of the Baskervilles-esque fog to see you, and 2. your brakes always work because your rims are not covered in a fine layer of grimy dew. It was so wet and windy, I felt like Andy Schleck (Lay-Oh-Parnes Pro Cycling) on the descent from Twin Peaks.

I’ll be honest, over the past few weeks, reality has been counterattacking the shit out of me; however, I finally feel like my life is settling back into a rhythm. In fact, while I was originally slated to attend a wedding in Illinois this weekend, plans changed last minute, and thus I have the opportunity to race this weekend.

What could be better than racing a HCTT on Mt. Diablo? Could it be facing off against my new frienemesis*, Robert Amatelli, at the CCCX later that day? How about trekking to my favorite event of all time, the Tour de Nez, which is back in its old-school glory as a one-day, downtown crit event this year?

I’m thinking of attempting the trifecta; however, until tonight’s miserable excursion, I hadn’t ridden my bike since Steve Reaney made me his CleanBottle at Watsonville and Albany a few weeks ago**. I suppose I should start riding this week if I intend to race an NRC crit on Sunday, eh?

OK, that was a bit of hyperbole. I did ride bikes a little bit in Portland last weekend, and I’ll spend the rest of the post talking about my visit to this fabled mecca of cycling.

Portland.

The name alone conjures images of a mythical land overrun by picture-perfect hipsters and breweries; a place where bike paths outnumber bridges; a place where bridges actually have dedicated bike paths. In reality, it’s a place so overrun with bicycle innuendo that I felt like I was immersed in a Bike Snob NYC article for the duration of my visit.

As you may remember, I headed to Portland last weekend to visit my former-teammate and good friend Justin; we stayed in a pretty badass apartment for the entirety of my stay, courtesy of Justin’s friend who is clearly ten times as awesome as the two of us combined.

The night I arrived, we walked from “our” penthouse to each of the roughly seventeen breweries nearby, including this one.

Justin — who used to be my equal in the realm of beer drinking –  quickly tired of my propensity for ordering “really dense, double IPAs” and resorted to making me finish his beers. Fear not, I deducted the appropriate Man Points from his lifetime tally for that kind of behavior, and we called it a night.

While he once was a serious roadie like me (whatever that means now that I’m a beer-drinking crit slut), Justin has quickly degenerated into a full-on Portlander. Take this milk-crated Surly Steamroller and complementary laid-back persona, for instance.

Justin seems to spend most of his time aboard this totally practical town bike, motorpacing behind rickshaws while carrying organic foodstuffs in the aforementioned milk crate, and he does so leisurely without a hint of his former, San Francsican urgency.

After we finished our totally stylish urban exploring “sesh,” we headed out for a rather nice ride on a road north of town called “Skyline Rd,” if you can believe that.

On our ride, we came to the conclusion that every city that lays claim to the moniker of “cycling town” is required to build a “Skyline Rd.” nearby, and that this road must adhere to several rules:

1. No shoulder.
2. Annoyingly long climbs to reach the road.
3. Annoyingly long rollers on the road itself that preclude exclusive use of the big ring.
4. Lots of motorcycles.
5. Cool views of the surroundings.

Now, Justin wanted to go for a slightly longer ride than we ended up doing, but I was eager to head back to the apartment and…uh…recover on the roof.

I needed to recover so that I could be prepared for that evening’s adventures, which included — but were not limited to — a Nike corporate party graced by teleconferenced athletes like Lance Armstrong and Michael Jordan. There were also hookers on stilts, I believe, but I couldn’t be sure because even non-stilted women are too tall for me to talk to.

Oddly enough, Armstrong appeared to be teleconferencing into the party from the Himalaya or something…presumably because his outlandish lung capacity prohibits Jeff Novitsky from pursuing him on foot in the thin air.

Michael Jordan, on the other hand, appeared to be in Vegas.

Now that’s PRO.

Anyway, following the party, we went out and enjoyed the Portland nightlife. It was awesome. Awesome enough to merit this kind of hangover food.

Justin had been raving about this cuban sandwich for about three weeks prior to my visit, and it did not disappoint. It was the kind of sandwich which begs you to sit around on the patio, savor its company, and pontificate for several hours. Naturally, Justin and I complied with the sandwich’s wishes.

Alas, this sandwich brought my visit to a close, and I boarded a plane back to SF shortly thereafter. In spite of the fact that Justin is probably the least relaxing person I’ve ever met, I came back to the foggy Bay Area feeling refreshed and reinvigorated.

Let’s hope my relaxed demeanor — and all those recovery beverages — help me fly up Mt. Diablo on Saturday morning. I hope to see everyone at the races this weekend!

*I’m going to lay claim to that word, which is about ten times as cool and slightly more descriptive than the inutterable “frenemy.” Gah.

**Yep… “screwed at both ends.” That was the joke. Ugh. That was bad even by my standards.

It’s no secret that I’m not a very consistent blogger, but this week was an exemplar of my inconsistency. Fewer than four hours after I arrived home from Watsonville, I had posted about the race; since then, I haven’t said a word. Life and work got in the way — how lame.

Stale news is kind of boring, so I’ll only briefly mention that I managed a damn-near perfect repeat of the Watsonville race during Sunday’s Albany Crit. The race has been documented (and rather embarrassingly annotated) on YouTube by velobiscuit, so if you’re more of a visual learner, skip my writing and just watch the video.

For the approximately five readers who actually read this blog instead of skimming the photos, hoping to see more Randy Bramblett impersonations, here’s how it went down: I attacked on the first lap, was joined by four other riders on the second lap, and by lap three or so, I was alone with Steve Reaney (Cal Giant) and my own self-loathing. Steve tried to drop me every time we hit the climb, nearly succeeded in doing so each time, and then glared menacingly at me when I couldn’t contribute much to our speed. What he didn’t realize was that my Mullet Vector was damn near horizontal the whole time; I’m pretty sure I spent 3/4 of the race in his ample draft, just trying not to get dropped. We lapped the field toward the end of the race, and my only recourse was to suicide-attack that grouchy old man on the final lap.

I lost. I mean, I’m so bad at finishing, I was beaten in the final sprint by about 90% if the lapped field.

What else is new? I have thirteen top-three finishes this year, and only one win. I’m like a miniature, really insignificant, amateur, slightly-less-effeminate-but-not-by-much version of Cadel Evans (BMC). I’m only slightly less likely to botch a bike race than Tom Danielson (Garmin), but thankfully my implosions aren’t as visible because no one cares about the races I enter. Actually, while I’m drawing ridiculous parallels between myself and top Euro-pros, it bears noting that I’m a reasonably good knockoff of Jan Ullrich.

(Photo Credit: Team Telekom and Team Big Pink’s respective press releases)

I wear pink a lot, I’m crippled by my vices — namely fattening foods, too little training, and too much partying — and I can’t win a bike race to save my life. I guess that makes Reaney my analogous Lance*.

Speaking of pink, check out some sick new kicks which were given to me by a loyal reader “so that Big Pink has some sweet podium shoes.”

Am I sad that my alter ego is more interesting, more well-liked, and more well-dressed than I am? Perhaps. Am I stoked about the shoes? Oh, hell yes. Hopefully these guys will be gracing the top step of a podium soon; otherwise, I’m retiring from racing and becoming a full-time blogger.

Before I log off for the evening, I want to share a few photographs forwarded eagerly in my direction by Jared Barrilleaux (Cal Giant)**. The Cal Giant Eunuch Squad is currently racing up at the Cascade Cycling Classic, and Jared seems to have taken it upon himself to document their missteps on my behalf.

First, we have single-purpose, young sprinter Benny Swedberg caught using the women’s rest room.

I think he learned that trick from his mentor, Reaney. Classy move, dude.

Next, we have yet another example of Tyler Brandt’s ineptitude with women.

If that isn’t the classic “Oh God, a pretty girl is right next to me” lockjaw, I don’t know what is. Listen, kids, being a serious bike racer is cool and all, but please don’t achieve that goal by forgoing one of the most important things in life: the opposite sex***. I guess I should just be proud of those kids for patronizing their local Oregon Hooters establishment during a stage race.

And now, I’m off to pack my bags for a weekend trip to Portland, where I’ll be reunited with my grumpier, older, cooler, more crash-prone twin Justin Fraga. Anyone who knows both Justin and I can imagine the trouble we might be getting into this weekend, but I’ll try to document it on these pages just for fun. See y’all at the races in a few weeks!

*I look a bit like Ashley Olson, so this analogy makes my relationship with Steve make a lot more sense, and a lot more confusing, all at the same time.

**Jared was the winner of last Saturday’s Novato Criterium, held concurrently with Watsonville, but I assume he was just avoiding Watsonville out of lingering shame from last year.

***I’m talking to you, Evan Huffman. I bet Phil Mooney (Raleigh Euro PRO Cycling) knows what I mean.

I’ve heard it said that the line, “Elementary, my dear Watson” was never actually used in a Sherlock Holmes book, and it certainly oughtn’t have been featured here in bastardized form; however, it’s too late now. Once I type a title, I don’t delete it, for better or for worse.

Incidentally, the reason the title came to mind is because the registration for the Watsonville Criterium is located at an elementary school. I pulled into the vicinity of the elementary school with Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” playing as loudly as possible on my poor Integra’s speakers*. Watsonville is a race where channeling your inner, anguished, counterculture, emo teenager is beneficial.

Before I go on, can we please come to a consensus: what do you call a corner that is tighter than your standard 90 degree turn? Is it “greater than 90″ because the magnitude of the change of your direction is greater than it would be on a normal square corner? Or is it “less than 90″ because the angle on the inside of the turn is, in fact, less than 90? I’m inclined to go with the first definition because the word “greater” is intrinsically more awesome, but I want to poll all y’all and define the formalism here and now.

The reason I’m so concerned is because the Watsonville crit has two corners which are somewhere between 90 and 180 degrees, but cannot rightly be referred to as “hairpins,” one of which lies at the bottom of a short descent. To make things more interesting, each of these turns has a choppy drainage ditch running through the apex. It’s like the course was designed by Dave McCook (McGuire) with input from Paolo Salvodelli. In other words, it’s the best crit course ever.

Every year, this race provides the same recipe for pain and suffering: technical course, hill, strong winds, and a small but usually top-end field. For reasons that I cannot understand, the number of P/1/2 riders who show up for this race is always small; however, the caliber of riders is insane. Jackson Stewart (formerly BMC), Ben Jacques-Maynes (Bissell), Dan Holloway (Kelly Benefits) and the usual Cal Giant dweebs (Reaney, Mattis, etc.) frequent this race like I frequent pastry dispensaries.

For years, this race was my arch nemesis for the reasons discussed in the preceding two paragraphs: the technical course suits my style extremely well, so I’m very motivated to do well, but, as it turns out, it’s really f*&king hard to beat guys who have raced Paris-Roubaix or won the NRC. My record from 2007 – 2009 was 3rd, 2nd, and 2nd after lapping the field with a small group each time.

Then, last year, escaping from the field with at-the-time National Champion Steve Reaney and Jared Barrilleaux (both Cal Giant riders), I managed the upset of all upsets and won the race while wearing a ridiculous helmet visor and 2001-era Rudy Project eyesores.

Actually, I’m not sure what’s more upsetting…

This year, it was made clear pre-race that Reaney was not going to let such a thing happen again; in fact, there was a rumor that the Director of Cal Giant’s team had threatened to fire Steve if I won again. In typical asinine fashion, I made it equally clear that I intended to repeat. Let the grudge match begin!

As you might expect when two riders are so intent on winning a race that no one else cares about, Reaney and I ended up off the front together within about three laps (of 58).

(Photo Credits: Steven Woo’s Facebook)

Not content to ride cohesively, we instead chose to inflict pain upon one another whenever possible. He would attack, and I would feebly cover. I would “attack,” and he would cover emphatically. We lapped the field once, and Reaney appeared satisfied that he would receive “a sweet leadout” from his teammates at the finish. Thus, I attacked again, hoping to re-isolate the grouchy old man — and it worked. Against my wishes, we subsequently lapped the field a second time with about 13 laps to go, un-re-isolating the best sprinter in the race.

Damn.

I tried with all my might to get away — or at least re-un-re-isolate my opponent — but in the end, I had to resort to a last-lap kamikazie attack through the technical turns to make my bid for the win. I had a slim gap until two corners to go, at which point Reaney came by me like a magnetically-levitated freight train with a warp drive operated by Scotty himself*.

So yeah…as I’m sure Steve would have wanted it, he came out on the top of some man-on-man action.

All jokes aside, Steve and his Cal Giant teammates played the race perfectly, and while my teammates raced well, I couldn’t quite steal the win. Ugh. Losing races sucks, for sure, and so I’m drowning my sorrow with a recovery beverage and a balanced recovery meal.

With that much recovery going on, Reaney and co. had better be ready for tomorrow’s Albany Criterium…another of my favorite NorCal criteriums. If anyone is around the Berkeley area tomorrow at about 4pm, stop by Memorial Park in Albany to heckle and watch me lose again!

*That sentence sounds creepy no matter how you slice it.

**If you really needed to click on that link, we probably can’t be friends. Star Trek is the “Lennard Zinn’s Art of Bike Maintenance” of being awesome.

This weekend’s San Rafael Twilight Criterium was definitely a highlight of my 2011 cycling season.

It was a highlight because I truly got to interact with my readership firsthand. I’d like to thank everyone who voted for my effeminate alter-ego to take the start of Saturday’s San Rafael Twilight Criterium, cheered “Go Big Pink!” during the event, or approached me after the race and said “I loved the pink jersey, and I love reading your blog.” I can’t express how much fun it is to translate digital readers into real people with real handshakes. If you see me at a race, please come and say hello; you wouldn’t believe how much it makes me smile.

Hell, even if you hate my pink jersey or the blog, come tell me in person. There’s a 90% chance I’ll still smile, and a 10% chance I’ll Vladimir-Karpets your ass off the road*.

Additionally, the heckling that took place during Saturday night’s San Rafael Twilight Criterium was the best yet. In fact, some people actually made legible-while-racing, block-letter heckling signs!

(Photo Credit: Garrett Lau)

As always, I encourage this newfangled “heckling at criteriums” trend, and I advise everyone around the globe to make heckling less of a cyclocross-only phenomenon and more of a road cycling phenomenon. Sometime during the race, I heard “Go faster! Don’t make me punch you in the ovaries, Rand!” and it actually worked. I actually rode faster out of fear for my female reproductive organs. If only we could legalize mid-crit beer handups…

Anyway, While talking to a friend of mine yesterday, I revealed that I was a blogger. This revelation often ends conversations abruptly, particularly conversations with the opposite sex, so I was grateful when she expressed (or feigned) interest.

“Wait…what? A blogger? Really? What is your blog about?” she asked.

As concisely as possible, I explained that, while it’s ostensibly about local bike racing, it’s really an inside look at the characters who define the sport. It’s about the intersection of truly talented professional athletes and local amateur pretenders — and about the hilarity that ensues when these oft-large personalities clash in an athletic arena.

One such personality is Roman Kilun (Kenda Pro Cycling), one of the district’s long-time professional cyclists. Roman has avoided attention on this blog for several years now; tonight, his streak of anonymity ends. I’ll be using Mr. Kilun as a centerpiece around which to arrange this post in a barely organized fashion — sort of like how I arrange my Cal Giant collectible bobblehead dolls around a photograph of Paul Mach (Bissell Pro Cycling) on my bedside table.

In order to tie everything together, here’s a photograph of Big Pink alongside Roman during the San Rafael Twilight Crit.

(Photo Credit: Jeff Namba)

I bet Roman, and all the other serious cyclists, felt somewhat uncomfortable at the sight of a pudgy little crit-midget wearing a pink jersey anywhere near his perfectly-matched, sponsor-correct countenance.

As you may have heard already, the San Rafael Criterium was a clusterf*&k of epic proportions loosely disguised as a high-profile race with a star-studded field; actually, it wasn’t so much “star studded” as it was “comprised mostly of stars.”  Kelly Benefits, United Health Care, Pista Palace, Cal Giant, and Full Circle Cycling all had several top-caliber riders present, lending the race an almost NRC vibe. And sure, huge crashes marred the event, but I suppose that’s part of the reason so many spectators were gathered outside the final corner. It’s like NASCAR, kids!

At some point near middle of the race, Roman and I were riding side-by-side just outside the top 20. Roman tends to be a cerebral cyclist and often doles out tactical advice mid-race; even if unsolicited, it’s almost always savvy. This intellectual take on the sport is not surprising given that he went to law school before he obtained his first Pro contract. “Hey man,” he said, “let’s wait here for a while, and then go off the front toward the end.” As if that was an easy task, I replied, “Yeah…totally, that was my plan!” or something equally nonchalant. In my reality, going off the front sounded very painful at the time.

In the meantime, I made a point of riding up next to former Crit National Champion Rahsaan Bahati (Pista Palace), and when I got his attention, I initiated the following conversation:

Me: “Hey Rahsaan, uh…have you ever read my blog?”

Bahati: “Uh, no. I don’t read blogs.”

Me: “Bullshit. You should totally read my blog.”

Bahati: “What’s this blog about**?”

Me: “Mostly making fun of Pro bike racers, though I’ve only ever said nice things about you!”

Bahati: “Yeah, well…that’d be the first time.”

At this point, he moved up a few positions, and I moved back a few. A couple of local racers nearby were like, “Dude, that was funny, but it was also pretty desperate.” They were probably right, but I was pretty desperate — I mean, I was wearing a pink jersey, for christ’s sake. However, a minute or two later, Bahati came back towards me and looked me in the eyes.

Bahati: “OK, what’s this blog called?”

I really hope he reads it. After all, one of my finest PowerPointShopped pictures of all time was the following image from my foray into SoCal criterium racing earlier this year.

Anyway, true to “our plan,” Roman and I and some guy named Andy Jacques or Andy Maynes (or something like that***) made a few late race attacks. Every adventitious attack was chased down in short order, as if an errant French TV vehicle had been sent to smite the pesky breakaways. After my final off-the-front attempt was brought back with 8 laps to go, and with a meatheaded bunch sprint imminent, I headed to the back of the field and dodged flying bikes and cartwheeling cyclists for a bit. It was a riot.

As anticipated, the sprinters had their day and the top-five consisted of Ricardo Escuela (Full Circle), Rahsaan Bahati, Eric Marcotte (Both Pista Palace), Eric Barlevav (Full Circle) and Logan Loader (RideClean).

After the race, I found Roman near a large party bus and had a recovery beverage or two. In addition to being a card-carrying lawyer and professional cyclist, Roman is a huge automotive enthusiast, so he invited me over to talk about the race and to check out his sweet Mercedes Benz. I wanted to take a picture of just the car, but instead ended up with a damn-near-Randy-Bramblett-worthy GQ photograph of Mr. Kilun instead.

Anyway, we listened to his diesel engine run for a few minutes, talked about how best to lose weight before the Cascade Stage Race, somehow broached the topic of “why you suck so much at bike racing, Rand” and in the end I left feeling enlightened as I always do after a conversation with Roman. Or maybe I was just high from the diesel fumes.

Shortly thereafter, I learned that my teammate Joel Robertson had gone down in an early crash and had broken his wrist. I made a quick trip over to Marin General Hospital to visit my fallen teammate, whereupon I found him drugged into oblivion and sporting the chic skinsuit-and-cargo-shorts look, a must have for this season’s fashion.

Joel was, according to the nurses, so afraid of being seen wandering around the hospital in a dorky skinsuit, he decided to don cargo shorts over the skinsuit instead of simply wearing a gown. Good call, Joel. Very sexy and totally not dorky. As an aside, will everyone please join me in wishing Joel, as well as everyone else who crashed this weekend, a swift recovery?

Anyway, I’ll end this post with one more Roman story from the weekend. I don’t have the time right now to talk about Sunday’s Lodi Cyclefest in detail, but I will mention that Roman — who races for a professional cycling team sponsored by a tire company — sprinted for a non-Kenda tire prime in the middle of the race. If there’s anyone who doesn’t need free bike tires, it is him. I was sort of annoyed at the time, not only because it was a tire prime, but also because his acceleration made my legs hurt even more and I almost got dropped from the winning breakaway as a result.

Always the consummate professional, Roman was unfazed when I confronted him about this questionable maneuver. “Nah, man. First of all, I didn’t sprint, I barely even accelerated,” he said, a deft emasculation of everyone he beat for that prime, “and second of all, I just wanted to win the tires so there would be two fewer Kenda competitors on the road!”

It’s a good thing more cyclists don’t have law degrees, or I’d be even less successful than I already am.

Anyway, I’ll be posting again tomorrow. Stay in touch, and thanks for reading!

*I’m assuming Contador was headbutted off-course because he made fun of Karpets’ formerly luxurious mullet. I’d do the same thing, frankly.

**Let the record show: A Girl and Rahsaan Bahati have recently asked me what my blog is about. Maybe blogging is cool, after all.

***I tried to ask Andy if he reads my blog, but he completely ignored me. That’s OK, I like his twin brother better anyway. Ben…do you read my blog?

My teammate Sean sent me this photograph from somewhere in the Midwest, where he’s currently preparing for some Superweek Crit Series action. Check out the mullet-vector on that guy! Apparently even the bike racks there are so fast, they surpass mullet-vector orthogonality.

For future reference, we will hereafter define the “sign” of a mullet-vector to be the sign of the dot product of the mullet vector and the gravitational vector. I’ve never attained a negative mullet-vector, but I’m also nowhere near as PRO as that negatively-mullet-vectored bike rack shown above.

However, I imagine the mullet-vector will approach zero tonight, as Big Pink should be making an appearance under the lights at the notoriously fast San Rafael Twilight Criterium.

As you may recall, I left the decision up to you readers and, though there appear to be a few Big Pink haters out there, the vast majority of voters have clicked in favor of my trashy, pink, female-cut alter ego.

However, it’s not too late to avoid embarrassment for everyone. You know that point in a wedding where the priest is like, “Speak now or forever hold your peace?” Think of the next few hours like that.

I’ll be checking the poll results at about 7:00 tonight; if you Big Pink haters can rally and vote him down, I will comply. Otherwise, all the P/1/2′s should prepare to be photographed side-by-side with an ugly pink midget by the hundreds of cameras on course. It’s up to you!

See everyone in a few hours!

Last Saturday was one of the most bizarre days I’ve experienced in quite some time. As a teaser, I’ll mention (without context) that, by midnight, I was stranded in downtown Davis with several Euro Pro cyclists and two homeless guys. True story.

It didn’t start particularly bizarrely. Like most race days, I got out of bed, grabbed some coffee and pastries from the cafe down the street, packed the car with all my racing gear, and headed to work at my laboratory. After spending most of my time there salvaging semi-failed experiments and force-feeding said pastries to myself, it was time to head down to the CCCX circuit race in Monterey. That’s when the bizarreness began to escalate.

I left San Francisco nearly four hours prior to my scheduled race — a very generous time allowance given that the drive usually takes about two hours. However, by virtue of a few Cat-5-driver wrecks on 101 South, the drive took nearly four hours.

Certain that I would miss the race, but unwilling to turn around so close to the venue, I called my teammate Billy — who was slightly ahead of me — and asked if he would plead with the race officials to postpone the race. I am forever indebted to Keith DeFiebre and his CCCX cohorts for doing just that; even though I arrived ten minutes after the scheduled start time, I was told that the start was being held for me and that I was still allowed to register.

The ensuing scene was completely ridiculous.

The rest of the P/1/2/3 field — anxious to get the race started, and in no way entertained by my special treatment — crowded around my car as I struggled with the “sticky chamois on sweaty legs” conundrum. Notably, ex-National Champion Steve Reaney (Cal Giant) was so kind as to pin my number for me (though he did offer to “apply chamois cream to my taint” first, which I graciously declined).

He pins numbers like a Cat 4, but it was still a kind gesture. In the meantime, Billy and Brandon Trafton (Cal Giant) were prepping my bike and filling my bottles while the promoters yelled at me to hurry up. I think that was the most stressed-out I’ve ever been before a bike race, but I was just happy to be allowed to race.

A four-man group went up the road on the first lap, containing my teammate Billy, Trafton, Wes Holloway (Echelon) and Martin Acosta (McGuire). It was ostensibly the placeholder breakaway of the day, but it was rapidly out of sight due to the small, disjointed group behind.

Fast forward a few laps, and suddenly everyone was in agony — the race had shattered into groups of one or two riders. Reaney had attacked in the tailwind section and pulled one of his signature “slowly ramp up the speed and then hold it at 35mph indefinitely” maneuvers. I did my best to get across to him — twice — and each time he would look back, see me coming, and purposely push harder. I spent a full lap with Art Rand (Marc Pro – Strava) about ten seconds behind Reaney, but apparently even two Rands isn’t enough to match that old fogey.

As I’m sure you’ve already guessed, Reaney won the race ahead of Wes Holloway (Echelon), though even Steve admitted that “it took all of my old man tricks to beat [Holloway]…he was really strong.” It was undeniably an awesome ride by the young kid, who was the only rider ‘core enough to join Steve in the winning move.

Meanwhile, Trafton fell victim to one of the Classic Blunders — the most famous of which is “never get involved in a land war in Asia” — but only slightly less well-known is this: never challenge a mulleted midget when his reputation is on the line.

You see, Trafton, Art, and I crested the final climb together — having allowed my teammate Billy to soft-pedal up the road for third place — because, as Trafton so eloquently put it, “I don’t really care if Billy gets third, because my only goal today is to beat you, Rand.” He added shortly thereafter, “I like my odds.”

Well, here is what a Classic Blunder looks like from the rarely seen vantage point of the official finish line camera.

Thanks to race official Marc Franklin — who I always remember as the only official who is constantly smiling and happy at races — for sending me those stills. Sad as it may be that my cycling career has degenerated into a series of “let’s see who has the longest [censored]” competitions for lower placings while real bike racers contest the wins, it also brings me joy to have outmeasured Trafton by about a foot on Saturday.

Here’s a better view showing just how far my little tyrannosaurus arms can stretch when I really want to beat someone.

(Photo Credit: CCCX Cycling)

Now, I had originally planned on heading to a birthday celebration for Chris Stastny (Cal Giant) in Davis that evening; however, having already spent four hours in the car, I wasn’t too thrilled to embark on a journey to the hellishly hot Central Valley. I was quickly convinced by the following series of tweets that skipping this event would be a Classic Blunder of its own.

That’s right, Evan Huffman (Cal Giant) had challenged his own mother, cyber-techno-cycling-mom extraordinaire Lorry Huffman, to an armwrestling match — and he lost. I don’t care how PRO of a climber you want to be, there is no reason why you should allow your arms to atrophy that much. I doubt Evan will ever recover from so violent an emasculation.

Then again, I showed up, drank about three liters of recovery beverage courtesy of several of the responsible adults present, and proceeded to challenge recent Counterattacking Reality Badge of Honor recipient, Jesse Moore (also Cal Giant) to an armwrestling match.

I’m pretty sure we spent at least seven minutes faux-smiling through gritted teeth, eying one another to judge the other’s exertion level, and shredding each other’s ligaments. In the end, I was beaten. In my defense, and unbeknownst to me previously,  Jesse was a serious rock climber earlier in life, but there’s still no excuse for losing a Battle of the Biceps with a man whose upper body resembles Michael Rasmussen mid-Tour.

Sadly, I’m not allowed to divulge the names and activities — or any visual evidence thereof — of several of the participants in this party because they’re contractually obligated to be monk-like bike racers. This means that the progression of the evening, which I so diligently documented digitally, will remain unblogged. Rest assured, I will be using these photographs as bargaining material when soliciting ProTour, Pro Continental, and Cal Giant Cycling Team contracts for the upcoming 2012 racing season.

Nevertheless, it was an incredible celebration befitting an awesome, talented kid, and I was happy to be a part of it. At least, that is, until one of the Pros was kicked out of the bar for disorderly conduct. Like I said, it was a bizarre day — I was actually relieved to arrive back in lab the following morning.

I’ll end this post with a irrelevant poll: should Big Pink race Saturday night’s high-proile San Rafael Criterium?

Part of me hopes that everyone votes “No.” Goodnight, everyone!

I don’t really have much time to write; I’m sitting here at work — having just watched the fireworks over downtown San Francisco from my office window — and I have a few minutes to bust out a brief post while an experiment is running.

That photograph is illustratively anticlimactic, a reflection of how enjoyable I found today’s Downtown Davis Criterium. Every year I nearly die at that race, and every year I come back; in fact, I look forward to it. I think it has something to do with the fact that my parents used to take me to the race when I was an infant, while my dad was in graduate school at UC Davis; there’s something fun about participating in an event I attended as a townie twenty-something years ago. I also love the spectator-filled downtown atmosphere…it’s almost like a legitimate sporting event instead of the usual tan-lined dweebfest.

Ridiculously hot and downright terrifying at times, this year’s edition of the race made me wish I had stayed home within about five laps. I think everyone who raced today can agree that the heat was stifling. Also, am I the only one who thought that some of the corners were narrower this year, by virtue of some new curbwork or something? Conditions aside, I was pretty worthless during the race and, as a consequence, I had a negligible impact on the event; racing without affecting the dynamic is undoubtedly my least favorite feeling in the world.

Nevertheless, this weekend’s racing was a blast. I have a pretty good, fun post planned regarding Saturday’s CCCX circuit race, but I don’t have enough time to execute it to my satisfaction.

For now, let me congratulate Mary-Ellen Ash (Metromint) for returning to her 2009-ish sprinting form and winning the W/1/2/3 race with a downright beautiful sprint, besting preeminent sprinter Mary Maroon and new-kid-on-the-block Rebecca Werner (both Webcor – SportVelo).  I heard there was a crash on the final lap, and I hope all the ladies who went down are alright.

(Image from Mark Nakamura’s Flickr)

Now if only Ash wasn’t wearing that abominable Rorschach Inkblot Ishihara colorblindness test of a cycling kit…

Logan Loader (Ride Clean p/b PatentIt.com), Steve Reaney (Cal Giant) and Roman Kilun (Kenda p/b Geargrinder) rounded out the top three of the P/1/2 field sprint, which was marred by several hard crashes as well; again, I hope everyone is alright. The amount of finger-pointing and name-calling that went on after the finish was almost comical — and people wonder why I exclusively ride for breakaways.

Anyway, look for my time-traveling, reverse-chronology CCCX circuit race report about Saturday’s happenings sometime in the next day or two. You’ll even get some never-before-seen footage of me sprinting (gasp!?) from a rare vantage point: the finish line camera. Ah, the perks of blogging.

See you then, thanks again for reading, and Happy 4th of July!

If there’s one thing this past weekend’s racing taught me, it’s that second place — no matter where it’s earned — is not a desirable position.

Take, for instance, the podium of the French Elite Amateur road race. This race reached its climax when two teammates came together to the line; only one would be able to mount the top step of the podium.

Here is the aforementioned mounting.

The guy who finished second does not seem to enjoy that Judas-esque kiss one bit. I think I’m going to make that my go-to image for “I lost a bike race again,” which is a sentiment I convey frequently around here.

Take, for example, last Saturday’s CCCX Circuit Race on the hilly, exposed roads of the abandoned Fort Ord military base in Monterey. I spent the bulk of the race barking orders at my teammates (Rob, Billy, and Carmi) on the flatter sections of the course, then drilling it on the climbs in order to try and force a breakaway. With two laps of the four-mile course remaining, I rode up to Billy and uttered one word: attack. Like a well-trained Jens Voigt, he leaped away from the field alone, leaving the remaining twelve riders no choice but to chase.

Ideally, my spindly little teammate would have been allowed a slightly longer leash by the chasers; had he stayed away solo, it’s possible he would have won the race without being disqualified for screaming vulgarities.

Alas, Billy was caught with a half lap remaining, and the burden of trying to win was left to me. I attacked alone over the final climb of the event, wary of the sprint of Rob Evans (McGuire), who was present in the final six-man lead group. After a fast descent to the finish line — in which, for the first time ever, I wished I had eaten more ice cream the night before — I was caught and passed by Robert Amatelli (Bonktown Sale Cycling) with about 200m to go, handing me my tenth top-3 finish of the season but denying me the win.

(Photo Credit: Tim Westmore)

And here is a picture of that podium.

Now, this little anecdote from the local NCNCA scene is nothing more than a microcosm of the life of Jesse Moore (Cal Giant).

Jesse Moore — most recently featured on this blog for his involvement in Operación Puerco — has made it clear to me on several occasions that he really wants to win a National Championship. That’s something that almost every competitive cyclist has said at some point.

The difference between Jesse Moore and…say…you and I, is that Jesse actually had a legitimate chance of doing so last weekend. In fact, he very nearly won three of them over the course of three days.

His third place in the ITT, only eleven seconds behind the winner, was the bike racing equivalent of Babe Ruth pointing to the bleachers.

The following day, Moore escaped from the pudgy critters with about ten laps remaining in the National Championship Criterium — agonizingly, he stayed away until after the final corner. He was only passed by the top three sprinters within a few meters of the line, slotting him into 4th.

Finally, in the National Championship Road Race, Jesse managed to brute-force his way into the winning breakaway of two riders in spite of the oppressive heat that caused more than half the ~200 rider field to DNF.

To the dismay of…well, pretty much everyone who has ever met Jesse Moore, he was beaten in the sprint by Max Korus (Bike-Reg.com).

I have to assume that the podium looked something like this.

Now, before I go on, I should mention that these National Championship races make me wish I could spend a year racing in every district. I wish I could write a post celebrating Korus’ brilliant win — a post like the ones I usually write, oozing with sarcasm and inside jokes, rife with personal encounters or embarrassing stories — but the bottom line is, I have never met the guy, nor even heard his name. The same goes for David Wenger (Super Squadra), winner of the Criterium, and Jonathan Jacob (Indianapolis Cycling Club), winner of the ITT. Congratulations to all of you on your wins; someday, I hope to meet each of you, have a beer with you, and find something embarrassing to write about.

Until then, I’d like the entire readership of this blog to join me in celebrating Jesse Moore’s incredibly consistent results in the nation’s biggest amateur cycling races.

While USACycling may not award an omnium jersey at Nationals, that doesn’t mean Jesse is not worthy of such an honor; after all, there’s no doubt that he is the best all-round amateur cyclist in the United States. To that end, I’d like to present Jesse with the Counterattacking Reality Badge of Honor, an award with absolutely no prestige whatsoever.

I’m hoping Jesse has the good humor to pin that logo to his jersey at least once, preferably at this weekend’s Leesville Gap RR…the site of another painful 2nd place finish for Moore back in 2007.

As much as I’d love to continue rambling, it’s getting late; however, I do have a few things to say about last Sunday’s Burlingame criterium. Provided I find the motivation, I’ll post briefly tomorrow.

P.S. No matter how I read it, the title of this post still sounds awkwardly inappropriate. Sorry ’bout that.