At the conclusion of Friday's stage this is how I would have represented it:
After finishing Sunday's stage, this is what Friday's stage looks like:
After that brief reflection, here's the report:
Heard mutterings at the crit that if the weather was nasty tomorrow that the road race would be cut short (from 101 miles to 18 or so). While I knew deep down I really wanted to do the full course there was a part of me that wouldn't have been too disappointed if the officials changed it to an all-out sprint to the top. So, hit the hay early, only to be awoken a few hours later by bright lights and loud noises... oh wait, that's a thunderstorm right over my head. Great. I look over and my tent-mate is dead asleep. Rain is pounding the tent, it looks like there's a rave going on outside from all the lightning and I could swear I was laying right next to a bass at a concert for how the thunder is acting. (oh yeah tent-mate, by the way, you were drooling all over your pillow...again). Anyway, finally got back to sleep and slept fitfully until 6am.
Woke up and, big surprise, it's still raining. I wander around for the next few hours, eating and grudgingly getting ready to race 5 hours in the rain, all the while waiting to hear that it was snowing on top of Dooley. And there go all the women--s***, looks like we're actually going to do this. One official goes by and I hear "yeah, it's not snowing on top so we're on." DAMMIT!
And we're off. It's 52 degrees and raining, sadly, this is the warmest it's going to be all day. For some reason I decided it's be a good idea to wear a summer kit with only mid-weight arm warmers. At some point the rain stops sometime before we start ascending the first climb and the road is dry halfway up. It's still overcast but at least the road is dry. No one is really working and we're all just hanging out as we let someone else do the work. The number 2 guy takes a few flyers and a break starts to form up but we quickly fall back in with everyone else because no one wants to work. Up and over another two climbs. Still, just kind of chilling out keeping the speeds down near 12 mph yet some people are still working hard. And we're off, the rain opens up again and before I know it we're strung out single file hanging on for dear life. I'm have a period where I do nothing but cuss inwardly and spit out rain and road grit for 20 miles as we sprint onward through the rain over choppy farm roads. I try and force down some food but have a hard time opening any of the wrappers and I just don't want to eat. Skip the second feed zone because I'm still good on water and don't want to carry any more up the hill with me.
And then it hits. I was told the start of Dooley would be a 90 degree corner. Turns out the road just angles left. Everyone falls back and I see some major GC contenders sitting at the front. I go with them as everyone seems to hit the brakes behind me. I know this is it, I'm standing at the foot of the mountain and have over 1900 feet of climbing before I will let myself stop. It's on.
Our break of 6 starts dropping people. First the bigger Second Ascent guy, drops like a rock. Then goes Little Bend Boy, his $2500 wheelset and terrible riding form, shooting straight back, almost like he's peddaling backwards. We're down to 4: the two Jackson, Wyoming guys (first and second GC), the Oregon Trail racing guy (5th GC, right behind me) and me. Going into the stage my goal was 3rd GC. I just have to beat the Oregon Trail guy to the top and I've got it.
I hang on. It is all I can do to stick with these guys. Oregon Trail guy is sitting on my wheel. The Jackson guys keep standing up and bumping up the speed just a little on each switchback. I look down, my heartrate is high but nowhere close to max, or even lactate threshold. Why can't I hold on? At some point the Oregon Trail guy falls off the back. It's just the three of us. Even with three shots of caffeine coursing through my blood my legs aren't responding... and I get dropped. The race leader takes over for his friend and they're gone. I look back. All I have to do is beat the Oregon Trail guy up the hill. I pass the race leader from the Masters race. I pass a dropped Cat 3. The official and lead wheel car go past me. I switch my computer so it no longer displays distance (no point in telling myself I'm almost there if I'm not). I pass the 3K to go sign. It's not that bad, I can hang on. Somehow I have the brain power to calculate that 3k is only 1.82 miles. I've done that before. Just think of it as a Germantown interval. THAT WAS THE G**-DAMN LONGEST 3K OF MY ENTIRE LIFE. I pass the 1K to go sign. I look back. There's no one there. I just want to be done. I see a parked car and someone standing on the side of the road. Crap, just a spectator. I round a corner and there it is, the OBRA tent and all those lovely officials standing in the middle of the road. I drag myself the last 200m and throw myself across the line. I'm done.
3rd on the stage and good enough for 3rd GC. Good race, glad I did it but even more glad it's over. Now for the dash back to town and long drive back to Portland.
Reflections and pictures coming soon (no, seriously, I'll get them up).
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