photo credit - nickgaetano's FlickrWe drove up to the Grasshopper as friends. We drove home as friends. But something happened up there on Old Caz. Something like this -
Before Occidental there is Freestone - a town with an Inn, a Spa and a bakery - the Freestone Bakery. We stopped at the bakery and topped off our tanks with strawberry ricotta scones fresh out of the brick oven. Grabbed some Fugasi bread for home before moving on to Occidental and the start of a little something called Grasshopper.
Bike - check. Helmet - check. Register and cue sheet - check. We were set to go, standing around the OCC recognizing other riders from the cross season and checking out the range of bikes. Nothing standing out - solid mix of road/mountain/cross. My Soulcraft and I felt comfortable here and then we were off. We rolled as a group, snaking, down the Bohemian Hwy like the first flow of water heading toward the gutter when washing the car. I assumed I was ahead of Chris, I did not see him - though I was extremely focused in front of me, still new at riding in such a large pack. We turned left onto Moscow Road, passing a cop talking to a motorist. He had a dull look on his face, and I heard him comment "You got to be kidding me." 180 friends up to something? No sir, we are not kidding.
After the group break au natural (pee stop... heeheeehehehehe) I worked myself up to the front third of the peloton, wanting to stay with the front group until the turn off, knowing that there would be a bottle neck equal to a First Growth Mouton Rothschild Nebuchadnezzar. A Muur of Belgium proportions, the Muur Van de Duncan - I dismounted last year and again I dismounted this year. However, rather than waiting around for an opportunity to remount, I simply ran up the Muur (passing some of my riding brothers and sisters) and remounted shortly before the gate (where I had to dismount again - D'uoh!). Up and over the gate and climb. Climb Climb Climb.
Not bad climbing, made good speed, pacing myself and picking up people until I reached the next gate and the descent. Still no Chris, something must have happened to my friend, and I will leave him to tell his something. But the descent, that is something I can tell you about. Cyclesport America (a British cycling magazine) contains a regular feature - Iconic Places. The magazine will give a profile on places such as Alpe Duez, Col d’Izord, Torumalet, etc.. The Old Cazadero Creek descent is an iconic place - worthy of any cycling glossy. The descent starts after the gate on an open farm/fire road. This year the dirt fire road was grassed over - just the first signs of a stubble. Chris found this part reminiscent of Switzerland - all that is missing was Heidi offering bowls of hot chocolate. Yeah - its that good. Open on all sides, smooth dirt and down you plunge into the forest. The Descent has three parts – the road, the descent in the woods and the river. This year the descent in the woods was covered in a slick swishy mud. I was passed a number of times by mountain bikes, and a couple of cross riders and still I raced - dodging tree limbs, taking turns with a foot out, and letting out a little giggle each time some mud splattered up into my face. I managed to catch one person on the descent before the river, however I probably lost 7 or 8 places. At the end of the descent is Austin Creek. I crossed the river, up to my knees and cold. The fans were out watching from the far bank, cheering us on and taking pictures. I wanted to reach into the cold clean water and pull out a can of beer - it was that kind of something.
My feet were now heavy with Austin Creek river with a little bit of climbing to do before hitting the town of Cazadero. Climbing out of the riverbed, I looked down and saw the red jersey of my friend and Panda teammate Chris.
“Donahue …” I shouted.
“Jeremiah” he replied.
I decided to sit up a bit and wait to form a group to paceline down Hwy 116 toward the ocean. I met up with two others, and we caught a fourth and we started working together, making good time so I realized that this was my group despite the absence of Chris. I took some long pulls on Austin Creek Road and then we all chipped in on Hwy 116 – each doing their own to their own abilities. I felt strong, pulling at about 20-21 mph. About half way to Willow Creek, I peeled off from my second pull and saw a group of five behind us . A group of five and gaining. I told our group we would soon have company, figuring we could sit up a tiny bit and join this group when they catch. We were caught and their lead rider pulled straight through leaving me in third position and the rest of their train latching on to our rear. I saw Chris was in now in our group, shouted a hello and picked up the pace to follow the wheel of this rider with massive thighs, dreading the time I would be called to pull again and keep this faster pace. Turns out, the rider with massive thighs pulled the entire way. This pace dropped some riders, but Chris and I and the the two other riders I had met on Austin Creek were still intact. At Willow Creek the rider with massive thighs had gone ahead to something bigger and faster than us. We on the other hand formed a group of four (maybe five?) on the flat chipped pavement of Willow Creek, chatting in the wind. Here is where I found myself starting to struggle. It seemed more windy then last year, and the pace seemed faster than it should be. I found myself hiding, not wanting to help with the pace making or take the brunt of the wind - coward. At times I found myself three bike lengths behind, but would then yoyo back on - weak. But with one climb left, I realized that I was not dead yet, this was my group, and I would try to keep up and meet them at the top, figuring that my climbing on Old Caz did me well. If I could climb faster than these three on Old Caz, I could at least keep up with them on Willow Creek. Sounds simple enough. We continued to roll, shouting out obstacles as we saw them. “Cattlegrate!” Our tires rolled:
Bmmmmmp
Bmmmmmp
Bmmmmmp
Bmmmmmp
Bmmmmmp …. Pisssssssssssstttttttt
At the last cattlegrate, Chris suffered a flat, and for a moment, I thought of waiting and riding together to the top, as friends, buddies who just happened to be out on a pleasant Saturday ride. But then something happened. He was going to drop me on the hill anyhow and now there is a chance to build up a lead.
“Chris, got everything? [I don’t care about you or your flat, I am going to keep on going.]”
“I’m fine [Son of a ..., He's going to attack when I have a mechanical. Well I’m going to fix my flat, have a bite to eat and maybe a cranberry poweraid cocktail, wait for an amazingly fast female to pace me back up to you and then pass you. How's that for something? ]”
Secure that my friend would be ok, I rode on. I rode on and up.
Willow Creek. I was feeling OK - hoohum, somewhat exhausted desperately needing pep. I was drained, but catching glimpses of riders in front. Passing one rider, he asked me how I was feeling. I said OK. I told him I felt really slow. I don't think he really cared because he told me he was hurting bad. I started to dread each increase in pitch and try to figure out the shortest route across the little slicks of mud that suck a tire to the hill. Slow go - but at least steady go. And then I looked up to see something that could be a problem. For a second I was unsure if a bike could even get up that steep an incline. Maybe the race organizers made a mistake. Are we sure we have to ride up this? Shit. No use complaining and so I stood up and started "dancing on the pedals" as they say. Not the funky fast pace of the jitterbug or the smooth flow of a waltz; rather the awkward shuffle of an 8th grade boy dancing with an 8th grade girl. So wanting to be cool, to be a man but in reality you are filled with fear. The fear of getting too close; too close to an idea, a dream and then the smack of rejection or worse, the real smack in the face. There was a slight reprieve on this devil and then I danced some more. Painful. Burning. But no smack. I had something left. I was going to make it.
I continued to grind when a lady passed me.
"There is a stick in your rear derailleur" she calmly noted.
"What? Huh? " was all I could muster.
She replied "A stick. In your derailleur."
"Oh thanks."
I guess I should get it out. So I stopped for a second to pull it out when I heard my friend come chirping along. Chirp Chirp Chirp. He rode on, and I followed not to catch necessarily, but to at least finish close.
Once on pavement, I picked up some speed, put it in the big chain ring and motored home. Caught one more person at the turn (not Chris). The rider asked which way and I told him just a little farther, on the side of the road look for the clipboard. I put my head down and opened the throttle. This is it, this was all I had. I was purring on all cylinders when I finished.
We started the Grasshopper as friends, and we finished the Grasshopper as friends. In between it was something else.
Before Occidental there is Freestone - a town with an Inn, a Spa and a bakery - the Freestone Bakery. We stopped at the bakery and topped off our tanks with strawberry ricotta scones fresh out of the brick oven. Grabbed some Fugasi bread for home before moving on to Occidental and the start of a little something called Grasshopper.
Bike - check. Helmet - check. Register and cue sheet - check. We were set to go, standing around the OCC recognizing other riders from the cross season and checking out the range of bikes. Nothing standing out - solid mix of road/mountain/cross. My Soulcraft and I felt comfortable here and then we were off. We rolled as a group, snaking, down the Bohemian Hwy like the first flow of water heading toward the gutter when washing the car. I assumed I was ahead of Chris, I did not see him - though I was extremely focused in front of me, still new at riding in such a large pack. We turned left onto Moscow Road, passing a cop talking to a motorist. He had a dull look on his face, and I heard him comment "You got to be kidding me." 180 friends up to something? No sir, we are not kidding.
After the group break au natural (pee stop... heeheeehehehehe) I worked myself up to the front third of the peloton, wanting to stay with the front group until the turn off, knowing that there would be a bottle neck equal to a First Growth Mouton Rothschild Nebuchadnezzar. A Muur of Belgium proportions, the Muur Van de Duncan - I dismounted last year and again I dismounted this year. However, rather than waiting around for an opportunity to remount, I simply ran up the Muur (passing some of my riding brothers and sisters) and remounted shortly before the gate (where I had to dismount again - D'uoh!). Up and over the gate and climb. Climb Climb Climb.
Not bad climbing, made good speed, pacing myself and picking up people until I reached the next gate and the descent. Still no Chris, something must have happened to my friend, and I will leave him to tell his something. But the descent, that is something I can tell you about. Cyclesport America (a British cycling magazine) contains a regular feature - Iconic Places. The magazine will give a profile on places such as Alpe Duez, Col d’Izord, Torumalet, etc.. The Old Cazadero Creek descent is an iconic place - worthy of any cycling glossy. The descent starts after the gate on an open farm/fire road. This year the dirt fire road was grassed over - just the first signs of a stubble. Chris found this part reminiscent of Switzerland - all that is missing was Heidi offering bowls of hot chocolate. Yeah - its that good. Open on all sides, smooth dirt and down you plunge into the forest. The Descent has three parts – the road, the descent in the woods and the river. This year the descent in the woods was covered in a slick swishy mud. I was passed a number of times by mountain bikes, and a couple of cross riders and still I raced - dodging tree limbs, taking turns with a foot out, and letting out a little giggle each time some mud splattered up into my face. I managed to catch one person on the descent before the river, however I probably lost 7 or 8 places. At the end of the descent is Austin Creek. I crossed the river, up to my knees and cold. The fans were out watching from the far bank, cheering us on and taking pictures. I wanted to reach into the cold clean water and pull out a can of beer - it was that kind of something.
My feet were now heavy with Austin Creek river with a little bit of climbing to do before hitting the town of Cazadero. Climbing out of the riverbed, I looked down and saw the red jersey of my friend and Panda teammate Chris.
“Donahue …” I shouted.
“Jeremiah” he replied.
I decided to sit up a bit and wait to form a group to paceline down Hwy 116 toward the ocean. I met up with two others, and we caught a fourth and we started working together, making good time so I realized that this was my group despite the absence of Chris. I took some long pulls on Austin Creek Road and then we all chipped in on Hwy 116 – each doing their own to their own abilities. I felt strong, pulling at about 20-21 mph. About half way to Willow Creek, I peeled off from my second pull and saw a group of five behind us . A group of five and gaining. I told our group we would soon have company, figuring we could sit up a tiny bit and join this group when they catch. We were caught and their lead rider pulled straight through leaving me in third position and the rest of their train latching on to our rear. I saw Chris was in now in our group, shouted a hello and picked up the pace to follow the wheel of this rider with massive thighs, dreading the time I would be called to pull again and keep this faster pace. Turns out, the rider with massive thighs pulled the entire way. This pace dropped some riders, but Chris and I and the the two other riders I had met on Austin Creek were still intact. At Willow Creek the rider with massive thighs had gone ahead to something bigger and faster than us. We on the other hand formed a group of four (maybe five?) on the flat chipped pavement of Willow Creek, chatting in the wind. Here is where I found myself starting to struggle. It seemed more windy then last year, and the pace seemed faster than it should be. I found myself hiding, not wanting to help with the pace making or take the brunt of the wind - coward. At times I found myself three bike lengths behind, but would then yoyo back on - weak. But with one climb left, I realized that I was not dead yet, this was my group, and I would try to keep up and meet them at the top, figuring that my climbing on Old Caz did me well. If I could climb faster than these three on Old Caz, I could at least keep up with them on Willow Creek. Sounds simple enough. We continued to roll, shouting out obstacles as we saw them. “Cattlegrate!” Our tires rolled:
Bmmmmmp
Bmmmmmp
Bmmmmmp
Bmmmmmp
Bmmmmmp …. Pisssssssssssstttttttt
At the last cattlegrate, Chris suffered a flat, and for a moment, I thought of waiting and riding together to the top, as friends, buddies who just happened to be out on a pleasant Saturday ride. But then something happened. He was going to drop me on the hill anyhow and now there is a chance to build up a lead.
“Chris, got everything? [I don’t care about you or your flat, I am going to keep on going.]”
“I’m fine [Son of a ..., He's going to attack when I have a mechanical. Well I’m going to fix my flat, have a bite to eat and maybe a cranberry poweraid cocktail, wait for an amazingly fast female to pace me back up to you and then pass you. How's that for something? ]”
Secure that my friend would be ok, I rode on. I rode on and up.
Willow Creek. I was feeling OK - hoohum, somewhat exhausted desperately needing pep. I was drained, but catching glimpses of riders in front. Passing one rider, he asked me how I was feeling. I said OK. I told him I felt really slow. I don't think he really cared because he told me he was hurting bad. I started to dread each increase in pitch and try to figure out the shortest route across the little slicks of mud that suck a tire to the hill. Slow go - but at least steady go. And then I looked up to see something that could be a problem. For a second I was unsure if a bike could even get up that steep an incline. Maybe the race organizers made a mistake. Are we sure we have to ride up this? Shit. No use complaining and so I stood up and started "dancing on the pedals" as they say. Not the funky fast pace of the jitterbug or the smooth flow of a waltz; rather the awkward shuffle of an 8th grade boy dancing with an 8th grade girl. So wanting to be cool, to be a man but in reality you are filled with fear. The fear of getting too close; too close to an idea, a dream and then the smack of rejection or worse, the real smack in the face. There was a slight reprieve on this devil and then I danced some more. Painful. Burning. But no smack. I had something left. I was going to make it.
I continued to grind when a lady passed me.
"There is a stick in your rear derailleur" she calmly noted.
"What? Huh? " was all I could muster.
She replied "A stick. In your derailleur."
"Oh thanks."
I guess I should get it out. So I stopped for a second to pull it out when I heard my friend come chirping along. Chirp Chirp Chirp. He rode on, and I followed not to catch necessarily, but to at least finish close.
Once on pavement, I picked up some speed, put it in the big chain ring and motored home. Caught one more person at the turn (not Chris). The rider asked which way and I told him just a little farther, on the side of the road look for the clipboard. I put my head down and opened the throttle. This is it, this was all I had. I was purring on all cylinders when I finished.
We started the Grasshopper as friends, and we finished the Grasshopper as friends. In between it was something else.
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