Race Report: A Tribute to Dad

I entered my first race in 1987.  It was the Downtown San Luis Obispo Criterium, and, at the time, it was a fairly important stop on the national race scene–not Coors Classic status, but still big.  The 7-Eleven team always sent a strong squad, and many other big teams showed up.  My dad and I had gone to watch the race two years earlier, and we were both very excited to see all of the various categories, from the beginners up to the pros, speeding around the block.  The following year we went again, and I decided then that I wanted to race bikes.

My dad got involved with the race committee, helping in any way he could.  This was always my dad’s way: he liked to join groups like that and make himself useful.  “Make yourself useful,” he liked to say, “instead of so damned ornamental.”  For the criterium committee, he helped with permits, the race flier, and course marshaling.  He also acted as the semi-official photographer for the race.

When the race day started, he was there, with his official t-shirt and an old cycling cap, his camera and his race crew ID draped over his neck.  He managed to station himself at the start/finish line so he could cheer me on in my first ever race.  Unfortunately, I raced it like it was my first ever race.  The pack exploded at the start, taking the first corner at more than 22 mph.  The pace only got faster from there.  I was off the back after two laps, and I made it only half-way through the race before the race official pulled me out; I was in danger of getting lapped.

I did not race again for a while.  Two years later, I had finally joined the Cal cycling club and started to race collegiate races.  Our first race of the season was at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo, so my parents hosted about six of my teammates at their house.  My dad was beside himself with joy.  The night before the race, we gathered in the garage to clean our bikes and make sure everything was ready to go.  My dad hung out in the garage with us, beaming the whole time, offering to help with the cleaning and maintenance.  The next day at the race, he was a big presence, decked out in his photographer’s vest, a Berkeley t-shirt and my Campagnolo cycling cap (which he had liberated from me).  He had a big stainless steel cooler that he filled with Exceed sports drink and put in the back of his pickup truck, with a little sign duct-taped to it that said “For Cal Cycling Team Only!”  He happily filled water bottles, chatting with the team, making jokes about what a rotten team Stanford had.  One of our guys skidded on a gravel patch and went down.  Since he was riding at a walking pace, he got up with only a minor scratch, but my dad was there with a first aid kit, ready to help out again.

It has now been three weeks since he died, and I entered my first race since then.  I put a photo of him in a plastic bag and kept it in my jersey pocket during the race.  Tonight’s race was the first of the summer races, a training series of fairly low-key races in town.  I went to the race tonight feeling a little undertrained, a little sad, and not all that excited to race.  Nevertheless, I wanted to race as if my dad were standing on the side of the course, snapping pictures and cheering us on.  He would have had all of the names of my teammates, and he would have been cheering them on just as loudly as he cheered for me.

The race was a points race, which means that there were sprints throughout the race worth points, and the final standings were determined by how many points one scored.  This is both a good thing and a bad thing.  It is good because the placings are not dependent upon a single sprint.  It is bad because you have to sprint five times during the race.

We started off at a reasonable pace, and I stayed in the very front.  The first sprint was only three laps in, and I challenged it.  The roads were wet from a brief rain shower, and I felt my rear wheel skidding a bit, so I did not charge as hard as I should have.  I took fifth in that sprint, which was out of the points.  There were a number of attacks throughout the race.  At one point, a guy from Zephyr was off the front for two or three laps.  The pack chased him sort of halfheartedly for a while, but finally got serious.  I went to the front and worked as hard as I could to reel him in, and it worked.

After that effort, I was shot for a while.  Dorothy passed me with a chipper “How are you?”  I thought about throwing my water bottle at her, but she looked so strong that I decided not to.  I was feeling better when another sprint came up.  I went to the front and pushed just below my maximum for an entier lap so that I could string the pack out.  It worked, as the pack was a long line moving at about 30 mph when we approached the sprint.  My teammate, Joe, came by and I yelled at him to go, go, go!  He went and managed to take second in that one.  I was happy about that, because I wanted my leadout to yield something for the team.

We were still rolling at a very good pace when two groups of two went off the front.  I chased down one group of two, but the other two were still in the lead.  Joe came up beside me, and we debated about whether or not we should try to chase down the first group.  As we were dithering, we lost our chance to make a good attack, so we made a sort of futile one.

In one of the last laps, the Zephyr guy hammered off to try to catch the lead group.  Two guys from Pawling lined up for a leadout, and I grabbed the sprinter’s wheel.  The Pawling sprinter was giving instructions to his leadout guy, and I waited and watched.  At the bottom of the hill, they started their sprint.  I let them work for about ten yards and then opened up.  It was the best sprint I have ever had.  I exploded.  When I started the sprint the Zephyr guy had about thirty or forty meters on me.  During the course of the 150 meter sprint, I gained nearly all of that back.  I finished fourth, a bike length behind the Zephyr guy.

My team rode a great race, with three of us taking points in some of the sprints.  Dorothy finished very strongly in the pack, probably her strongest race, and I saw her attacking and bridging gaps a couple of times.  Although I felt like I was going to throw up or pass out a couple of times out there, it was one of the best races I have had.  I think my dad would have been proud.

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