Barry-Roubaix 2010 - A Tale of Two Laps(es)

Getting Down and Dirty
Near the end of the first lap I was pulling a single speeder in my draft over the last few miles of the paved road section. At one point he let out a loud moan.

"I can relate," I replied. If my legs had been a TV ad graphic with words written on them explaining their condition, they would have said "throb, ache, ugh!" all over the place.

"I'm doing two laps," I said, trying to sound upbeat. There was a long pause, then I heard a chuckle. "That brings to mind a great saying I've heard," he said.

"Go ahead," I said, "I can take it."

"There's a fine line between bravery and stupidity."

Yes, I thought. There certainly is. I raised my hand high. "And I know exactly where I fall along that line." We got a great laugh out of that. His laugh was hearty and full of joy. He was finishing up soon. My laugh had more of a grievous tinge of woe.

I thought of all those racers finishing up while they were still compos mentis. Beer awaited them. Good beer. Beer from Founders. Founders is one of the country's great brewers these days. I love Founders beer.

I don't want to say I was in no mood to do a second lap. I don't want to say it, but I will. My mind was more compost mentis at this point. I felt that in that first lap I'd done my service in the detritus of the early race season. My legs were full of distance prep and very little intensity. Good, you might say. One more lap is made for you. But I'd included this new concept of intensity for the first time this year on that first lap. My legs looked up at me and wondered what the hell I was thinking. I looked back and sheepishly apologized.

A short while later I was behind a couple of other guys who were pacing along at a nice clip. What I didn't realize was that they, too, were finishing up their race in a few minutes. Somewhere along the road there was a sign for the second lap turn for the "Elite" racers. I didn't see it. We got back to the State Park entrance and I knew, like a foolish character in a country song, that I'd done wrong.

I thought for a fleeting moment of hanging it up. But no, I signed up for the full tour. (I may be stupid, but I ain't no quitter. I'm sure that's a line in another country song somewhere. Not sure at this point whether or not that's a wise view of the world.) So I swung the bike back, all alone now, took out my home crafted energy bar that looks extremely unappetizing but is full of things that are good for you (yum!). I chewed at it dejectedly as I rode back against the long stream of those finishing up. Yes, I wanted to say to them, I was boneheaded enough to, 1) sign up for the Elite race and then, 2) miss the turn. My podium chances were now very slim. Very slim indeed.

I'll let you hold on to that lamentable thought for a minute, while I tell you about the yard sale.

Yard Sale
In the midst of the second lap, my confidence at navigation was at an all time low. I hadn't seen another rider, much less a course arrow, for miles. The sky was blue and the air was crisp and that podium was growing more and more elusive by the minute.

High on a hill, among all those endless rolling hills, was a small old man sitting alongside the road in a plastic lawn chair. His face was chestnut brown and wrinkled from many years in the sun. There was a light layer of dust on his jacket shoulders. These are dirt roads after all and dust is what happens on dry days. Nearby was a sign that spelled out, in a childlike scrawl, Yard Sale. He beckoned me over with a tip of the head. I pulled in.

"Racing?" he asked, in a thick, old world accent. "Not sure I'd call it that," I replied. "Let me show you something," he said. He arose, stiff from sitting, though once up he had a lilting spring in his step. He was a healthy looking spry old man, thin, but in a fit way. He walked a bit stooped over, like he was leaning toward a pair of handlebars. He led me back behind the metal floor lamps without shades, the rusting reel mowers, and a few wooden chairs missing their spindles. Gleaming there in the early afternoon sun, leaning against a table full of old iron skillets, a tangle of bent silverware, and a dented chrome toaster, was a vintage condition Cinelli road race bike, powder blue. He said something about Fausto Coppi, but I was so entranced by the mint condition of this old glistening mount, that I barely heard what he was saying. I knelt down and became engrossed in the details, particularly the head badge, a work of art in itself with a coat of arms and the magic city of Milano scrawled across the front.

I looked up into his face and he smiled. He patted me gently on the back. I envisioned him in his youth, spinning over the roads of rural Italy on this bike, his muscles taut, his back arched and his face turned toward the sun, smile spread cheek to cheek. As if reading my mind, he nodded. It was like he saw into my soul and I knew that we were brothers, different generations perhaps, but one in our passion for disappearing down quiet back roads on two wheels, the wind in our face.

"How much?" I asked, but he shook his head. "Not for sale?" I said with a hint of sorrow in my voice, realizing my error.

"Oh yes," he said, "very much for sale. But only to the right buyer."

"Oh," I said, caressing the top tube. I wondered what he meant by that, so I asked.

"What are you carrying with you?" he asked.

I laughed. "Not anywhere near enough to buy this," I said.

"What are you carrying with you?" he repeated, this time in a deeper tone, the thick Italian accent pasted throughout, his brow arched and grim.

I started to pull things out of my pockets. A spare tube (I had another in my bike bag under the saddle). He took it. The beautiful green Barry-Roubaix water bottle just handed out to me at the beginning of the race, which I'd foolishly filled with water and stuffed in my back pocket even though I had two full bottles in the cages on the bike. He took it, nodding happily. It was a nice looking bottle. I reached in further and pulled out a couple of Hammer Gels. "Oh, yes," he said, snatching them out of my hand. "They're the unflavored ones," I said apologetically. "Bellissimo," he said. My phone. He shook his head.

The only thing left was the wrapper for my home made energy bar, mostly eaten. He pointed to a garbage bag lying nearby. I tossed it in. He lifted up the water bottle. "You drink out of it yet?" "No," I said. "Cent' anni," he said and he took a large swig.

He then walked me back to my bike and pulled a half full bottle of Gatorade out of its cage and handed it to me. "Venduto," he said, reaching the bottle in his hand toward the bottle in mine. We tapped them together with a thwock sound. "Sold," he continued, since the look on my face must have shown my confusion. "Where are you parked?" he asked. From that point on I was in some kind of trance. I must have told him that my car was sitting in amongst hundreds of others back at the State Park, and he must have asked specifics, but I don't remember.

He held my bike for me as I mounted. "It will be waiting for you," he said. "You sure you're okay without this extra water?" I nodded and he pushed me off down the road. I felt light and free and soon I saw racers ahead of me so I knew I was still on course. I caught a few and passed them. My legs were sore, but not so sore that I couldn't pedal up those long arduous hills without a joyful spirit.

Sure, I'd tossed away all chances of a podium, but in the coming months I'd be riding a powder blue Cinelli out Huron River Drive, feeling the sun on my face. I crossed the finish line some time later, though time was now irrelevant to me. I rode straight to my car, and sure enough, there it lay. I must have told him where I'd hidden the car key because the bike was stretched out in the back of my locked Subaru with a sultry look, like Titian's reclining Venus of Urbino. The car key was just where I'd left it.

I wandered up toward the registration building to refill my now empty water bottle, bumping into Jason L and Ben C on the way. They'd both done well and were happy with their race. I didn't want to bring them down at the time with my own story, so I kept quiet about the bike and the old man.

I left shortly thereafter and headed back over the course in my car, trying to find the old man and his yard sale, but he must have packed it all up and I couldn't remember exactly where he was along the way. The course was, after all, full of one long hill after another, mostly dirt, but with a few paved sections. There were more hills than I'd ever imagined and they were longer than I thought they'd be. There was even a two-track sandy road shortly after the start that dumped one rider over another into the deep loam. In the early chaos racers dismounted at times and ran, more riders went down, but emerging from this on to the gravel road, the race was already sorting out and the crashes were few. Packs formed, disbanded, and reformed. The hills came and went, cramped legs came and went, opportunities appeared and disappeared.

And all in all, it was a great race. The B-R crew were extremely well organized. The weather was ideal (unless you're one of those demented people who enjoy slop and degradation). I can honestly say that this is the one and only time I will ever ride this race in its 60-some mile entirety again. But I will race it again. It is a fantastic course.

Where was that podium? I forgot to look for it. It's just as well. I would have probably gotten lost in the search. I think I'll start a facebook page for the navigationally challenged. And maybe another page for people who like to make up outlandish stories about their adventures.

By they way, I've since learned that the powder blue Cinelli holds quite a pedigree and is extremely valuable. It is now housed in an undisclosed location. Amazing world, isn't it?

Later,
........................................................................................oRo

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