1996
The racer plays promoter
By Patrick O'Grady
1996
The racer plays promoter
By Patrick O'Grady
When you live way up here in the shadow of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, where the eagles get dizzy, just getting out of bed in the morning constitutes an interval workout.
This is a good thing, because in the fall -- when I am supposed to be training for cyclo-cross -- the flaming reds and yellows of oak and aspen blind me to my holy purpose.
This seasonal distraction leads to inefficient training practices, such as leisurely spins on the mountain bike and making noises like, "Ooh," and "Ahhh." What one requires are brutal anaerobic sessions on the 'cross bike, bleeding from the pores and making noises like, "Shriek," and "Barf."
If it weren't for that killer interval from the sack to the coffee-maker each morning, I'd be in a world of hurt.
This Way to the Egress.
When I'm not not training, I'm doing other things to ensure a lack of fitness for the fall fun-fest. As one of four promoters in this year's Colorado Cyclo-cross Series, I was responsible for the first two events. It was a dubious honor that my overactive imagination used to run me ragged during the day and keep me awake at night.There were flyers to debate, design and distribute, and release forms to photocopy; wooden barricades and Web pages to build; and a plethora of permissions to obtain, from the county parks department to the U.S. Cycling Federation.
There were Halloweenish phantasms to conjure up and dispel: What if no one shows up? What if everyone shows up? What if everyone shows up at the same barricade at the same time? How many cyclo-crossers does it take to fill up an ambulance?
And there was a never-ending barrage of questions from competitors and colleagues: How deep do we go with the prize list? Can I race a USCF event with a NORBA license? And say, just what the hell is a "cyclo-cross," anyway? I used to know the answer to that one, back when I was still a racer. But I'm pretty sure it's what I'm not doing right now.
Step to the Rear, Please.
I should know better. I had enough trouble organizing my time when all I did was pin on a number and go around in circles. As a "promoter," my life has taken on all the order, structure and attention to detail of the Italian parliament.Never particularly good at delegating tasks, I tend to set up and tear down the course on my own and do a sort of mobile corner marshaling in between, darting from place to place on my bike to see what I've managed to screw up this time.
This constitutes my warm-up for the Masters 35-44 race, which is packed from stem to stern with the kind of leather-lunged, thunder-thighed mutants I couldn't catch on a Suzuki, much less a Steelman. Traditionally the last master to show up, I roll up to the back of the pack for the start, then try to pick off a few stragglers while praying for mechanicals up front.
Sometimes it works. A teammate who normally beats me like a gong had trouble with his seat post last week, and I hardly even touched it with that Allen key. But I was even later than usual for the start this week, and off he went in a cloud of dust and a hearty, "Hi-yo, Redline, awaaayy!"
So Near, and Yet So Far.
With an optimal training plan such as mine, an athlete must pick his contests carefully. My personal race the past two weeks has been with a Boulder master who has taken fourth to my fifth in both outings.This week, I thought I had him. I got my usual killer start -- caboose in the masters train -- but by mid-race had worked my way up to fifth. And he was looking over his shoulder. I was so close, I could have snagged the energy bar out of his jersey pocket.
And maybe I should have. Because with two laps to go, I hit the proverbial wall, falling apart faster than Bob Dole's campaign strategy. Remember the Wicked Witch of the West in "The Wizard of Oz?" I was melting, melting; what a world, what a world.
So, instead of launching a killer attack, I spent the bell lap looking over my shoulder, downshifting until I ran out of cogs. Fortunately, there were a few guys out there with training schemes less effective than mine, and I was able to wobble in for an ugly fifth.
But all is not lost. I'm going to add a third element to my morning interval session -- out of bed to the coffee-maker, then back to bed. And for the next several weeks, I'm not the promoter -- I'm just another racer until my turn comes around again in early December.
So why am I still worried? Think about it. What am I supposed to use for an excuse until then?
Bite this bone to return to the Columns.Bite this bone to return to Mad Dog Media.