The Old Capitol Crit on Sunday was another story. The fours raced for 40 minutes +2 laps. Again, probably a field of around 40. I didn't make the break to stay with the lead bunch of 7 or so. Hung with the chase group (which included a strong Mattisimo Hartman) for several laps, until the little voices in my head took over and told me that my legs were really not legs at all, they were in fact angel hair pasta...limp and weak. I finished the race alone to the condescending cheers of the crowd ("lookin' good...you can catch em....keep trying, you pathetic loser"). I'm guessing I finished about 20th or so, the rest of the field behind me was pulled or just gave up b/c drinking a beer and watching the remainder of the race was more appealing. The good news is, the officials screwed up and said I finished 9th, so I won $50! I gave it to my teammate that lead the entire race only to be taken out on the final corner of the final lap before the final sprint for the finish. Boy, did he get fucked. After the race I drank stout and began the process of forgetting. You know, forgetting how much it hurt to climb that bitch of a hill over and over, forgetting how I felt like puking right before the race, forgetting how my back wheel was slipping on the descent at 33 mph. Shit like that.

Wheeeee...ain't it great? How exactly does someone go about switching back to a Cat 5 from a Cat 4?

Greetings, Minions.

A quick ride report on my inaugural Brr ride.  Just the facts:  I left my warm and cozy home in Iowa City on Thursday morning around 8:30 to hook up with my two riding partners.  The Brr ride being only twenty some miles, I decided that riding almost 200 miles from Iowa City to Perry would make it a bit more of a challenge and some good saddle time.  The two other members of my group have done it before, and they’re old, so I figured, “what the fuck”.  So, off I go, cautiously pedaling my way through the slush and ice on the roads from a light snowfall we had a few days earlier.  My crappy old Centurion “bar bike” equipped with  fenders, rack, a small drybag and an Evil backpack stocked with a flask of Jim Beam and some dry socks.  An hour later we’re headed west on Hwy. 6.  The cars (and especially the trucks) hatin’ us as we staggered ourselves across the highway taking advantage of a sweet south wind.

Barely  10 miles out of town we cruise by a crime scene.  Not your average sight in southeastern Iowa.  State patrol, sheriff and the local media were all converged on a junkyard.  When we stopped for coffee, food and warmth another 20 miles down the road we found out that someone had been shot the night before.  Terrorists, no doubt.   Kill em all.  Not my problem, got a lot of miles to go.  Back on the road.

Still cooking along, making some sweet time.  Not much conversation, just a nice steady tempo.  Everyone doing their share, taking their pulls.  You gotta understand, I’m not riding with Evil.  For whatever reason (and there are several but I won’t go there), no one from Evil could join me on this tour.  So I’m riding with my winter training guru and his long time riding buddy who recently moved to Mississippi.  Both have mucho race experience, both are strong, both are cardiologists.  Neither talk very much.  Soooo, I’m kinda just daydreaming along, wondering just how far we are going to push it on the first day.  I’ve been putting in my miles this winter, so I feel like I could ride all day.  Which is exactly what we do.

We stop for lunch in Grinnell, down a couple pints of Guinness, eat some pasta and back on the road heading for Newton.  Eighteen miles of traffic and bumps and hills.  I feel great.  We make Newton by 4:30.  Roughly the halfway point of our journey.  Decision time.  We can stop and check in to a hotel in town.  Strip out of our wet clothes into a hot shower and then head to a Tex Mex restaurant for margaritas and enchiladas.  Tempting.  Or, we can ride another twenty five to thirty miles (most of it in the dark) to Altoona and stay at Rick’s parents.  The tail wind and the prediction of a head wind tomorrow make the decision easy.  Off we go.  Two hours and a few wrong turns later, we wheel into some very nice accommodations.  Rick’s parents roll out the red carpet.  I could go on, but let me just say this; imagine being really tired after a long, long, day on Ragbrai and you roll into a beautiful home with a hot shower, a hot meal, and some real good wine.  Feels real good.  Course that never happens on Ragbrai.  Usually, you roll into town and have the choice of camping next to a row of kybos or sleeping in a flea infested house with the person that everyone in town calls “the cat lady”.

The next day, as predicted, it’s overcast.  Low thirties and a relentless 18 mph headwind out of the Northwest. I won’t go into details, because there really aren’t any.  We rode that 65 miles knowing that we had a room at a four star hotel waiting for us in Perry.  And I’ll be the first to say that the 65 miles we rode on Friday were a lot harder than the 120 we rode on Thursday.  But it’s all good, right?

We hit Perry by 3:30 and check in.  I will say this, when you travel with doctors you travel in style.  I’m used to eating from a can, sleeping on the floor, and showering with a hose.  Not this trip.  This fucking hotel is unreal.  It has absolutely no business being in Perry, IA.  After showers, we hit the bar for drinks and snacks.  Doc 1 and Doc 2 head upstairs for a nap after a couple of drinks.  I end up staying in the bar as the crowd begins to roll in for the actual ride tomorrow.  These people are here to party.  Next thing I know I’m surrounded by loud, rowdy people looking to get drunk…and get drunk quick.  Where’s Evil when I need ‘em?  After an hour or so of introductions and “ you rode all the way from Iowa City, let me buy you a beer”, I crawl out of the bar and down to the bowling alley in the basement of the hotel.  Fuckin’ a…a two lane bowling alley in the bottom of the hotel. 

Pure genius.

Nest thing I know, it’s time for dinner.  Of course we have reservations in the swanky restaurant in the hotel.  By this time another person had joined our party.  Another cardiologist.  As the three of them study the wine list, discussing the merits of wine no. 482 versus wine no. 367, I order some top shelf single malt and try to focus on remaining vertical.  At this point, I’m drunk and beginning to exchange insults with Doc 3.  Isn’t that what we do when we’re drunk?  Are we not men?  Waitress, more scotch please.

After dinner, we head to one of the three dives in town.  Ahhh, now I’m beginning to feel at home.  Live music, sticky floors, pool tables.  Life is good.

The morning comes too soon.  My head is pounding, I smell like booze and I think I slept in the tub for a portion of the night.  Man, when am I gonna grow up.  I better straighten up, my wife and a couple of my buddies are due to arrive at any time to do the actual “ride”.  Doc 1 and Doc 2 are off to do the ride at a much faster pace than what my group will ride.  The ride itself is like a mini one day Ragbrai, without the Pork Chop man or the hills.  Lots of people, lots of varying skills (ride defensively, man, you don’t know what direction Hilda on the cruiser bike is going to head next), and a lot of drinking.  The weather was warm…was probably 40, felt like 50, with very little wind.  I probably didn’t do it up proper, though.  Knowing that we were heading back home that night, and not knowing who was going to drive, and being hungover most of the day, I didn’t drink as much as the rest of my crew.  Hmmmm, maybe I am growing up.

Next year, though, with coercion from me on my teammates, Evil will be their en masse to flaunt our superior drinking and riding skills, or riding and drinking skills, it’s all the same.  Hopefully, it will be real fucking cold.