Yesterday was the Housatonic Hills Road Race, the one race a year that I absolutely have to do, and the one race a year that I absolutely dread. It is a very hard, very popular race, and usually very hot race that promises to turn even the most dedicated cyclist into a whimpering, wobbling pile of jelly.
This year was a little different, though. Because one of the roads on the course is notoriously horrible, even by Connecticut standards (there are actually parts of it falling into the river), the race organizers decided to switch the route a little by eliminating River Road and adding a new stretch north of Roxbury. This added about 600 feet of climbing to an already hilly race, but the new roads were in much, much better shape. This also meant that we started the race going up Constitution Hill, a ferocious climb of about 2 miles with some double-digit grades (I’m not sure of the exact gradient–12%? 15%?–something like that).
I lined up at the front, as I like to do. I was lucky this time with my fellow front-liners. Usually the guys at the front all think they are the Second Coming of Lance, and have about as much congeniality as NYC transit cop with sore feet and hemorrhoids. Today, though, everyone was relaxed, or trying to appear relaxed, and we chatted and joked with the promoter as we tried to shake our pre-race jitters and get ready to focus. The whistle blew and we started up the neutral start behind what one racer deemed the ugliest race vehicle ever.
Although the start was neutral, one guy tried to get a gap going by riding right on the bumper of the lead vehicle, while the rest of us sat back and laughed at him for riding like such a dork. At the top of the hill, the lead car sped off and the race really started, with the bumper-sucking dork tearing off as if this were a 20 mile flat crit instead of a 55 mile hilly road race. We let him go, but still pushed our pace up into something more closely resembling racing.
I found myself feeling really good at the beginning, which is always a bad sign. I took the first long descent at speed, making some great swooping curves and hitting around 45 mph before the road turned up Minor Bridge and the start of the first major climb–it was, in fact, the beginning of the old King of the Mountain climb. I rode at a solid, steady pace, pushing myself a bit, making sure that I was staying with the lead part of the pack but not burning myself out. I crested this first climb about tenth or so, and noticed that we were already starting to lose the back ten or twenty racers.
We soon noticed that the bumper-sucking dork was no dork at all, but had some real speed and strength and was staying up ahead with about a five or ten second lead. Another guy jumped the gap and there were two up ahead, a potentially dangerous situation. We in the pack watched carefully, noting when the two up ahead looked tired or when they seemed to have a little extra push. By the time we turned onto the new part of the course, we could see that, despite their very strong effort, the two guys were not going to be able to stay away for much longer. By the time we came to the first really deadly section of the course, we were a single pack again.
The new horror to confront us was Nichols Hill Road, a long climb hitting 10%, or so one of my more technologically-equipped friends tells me. That kind of gradient is just out of my comfort zone, and means that I can’t rely on the power side of my decent power-to-weight ratio and start to lose ground as the weight side weighs (ahem) more heavily. It was also dangerous because not everyone races intelligently. I knew the course because I rode it a week ago, and I knew a sharp right was followed by a hellacious climb, so I dropped into my small chainring before making the turn. Others did not have my foresight, so they made the turn, were confronted with the dispiriting sight of a wall pretending to be a road, and frantically tried to shift. Too late. At least five guys dropped their chains and were desperately trying to get going again as the pack swept around the corner. Again, I was ready for this, and took evasive action.
This hill, I thought, panting miserably, goes on for-fucking-ever. Skinny little climbers passed me, but I held on, trying not to grit my teeth (it takes up energy you need for climbing), planning my shifts and accelerations meticulously. I managed to stay with the main group as the pack fractured definitively. For a change, I was on the right side of a fracture.
After the climb, we entered some of the stereotypically pretty rolling ridges of Connecticut, the perfect sort of road for a scenic Sunday ride through farmer’s fields and bucolic vistas of the Housatonic River valley. For us, though, scenery was beside the point, and we ticked along at 28 mph.
The new King of the Mountain climb came after a screaming fast descent and sharp left turn. The front group of the peloton knew better than the poor suckers who dropped their chains earlier, and took the turn and climb with aplomb. I took it with too much enthusiasm and started picking off racers as if I were going to try to win the KOM prize myself, except 180 pound rouleurs don’t win KOM prizes. I passed roughly half of the lead group, putting me about ten back and halfway up the one kilometer climb, when I remembered that the proper method to climb is start easier and build your speed over the course of the hill. About two-thirds of the guys I passed now passed me (the rest stayed passed) and I got dropped right before the crest of the hill.
Now I had some catching up to do. I went into an aerodynamic tuck and screamed down the hill, happy to find a place where my weight was more useful. I glanced at my bike computer and then wished I hadn’t: I was flying down this road, happily oblivious that I was breaking the road’s speed limit at 52 mph.
After the turn on Bacon Road (mmm…bacon…), I caught up with the lead group and settled in comfortably. I kept trying to count the racers in the group and estimate my chances, but it was too hard to keep everything straight and concentrate on riding at the same time. Let’s see…did I count that guy in the red jersey already? Just race, okay?
Then we hit the second lap. Constitution Hill. This time it was not neutral. The lead pack again splintered. I passed a couple of heavily wheezing, dripping, drooling racers, but was myself passed by several disgustingly fresh-looking speed demons. I could not keep pace with the lead group and found myself cresting the summit alone, ahead of the slower guys but behind the faster guys.
I soon hooked up with a couple of other not-quite-climbers, and we tried to limit our losses and maybe even catch up. We couldn’t quite do it, though, and when a larger group of chasers came by, I didn’t have quite enough left to sit with them over the second King of the Mountain climb, though I gave it almost everything I had left.
The first year I raced this course, I finished 69th. I didn’t race it the next year, but the year after that I had a mechanical and didn’t finish. Last year, I finished 54th. This year, 41st. At this rate, I’ll finish 30th next year, and 21st the year after and 14th after that, and then 9th. Apparently the best I can do, mathematically speaking, is 5th.
I will absolutely be there next year.
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