Tucson Bicycle Classic 2019 Race Report

I was on a rollercoaster ride from Thursday to Sunday. I started feeling sick on Thursday, the day before the time trial. I tried to ignore it – surely that would make it go away, because that’s totally how the immune system works… – but my sore throat and runny nose really started to bother me.

Normally a highly-trained and hydration-conscious athlete, I drink a lot of water. At least a bottle every 90 minutes, probably more if I’m riding. Even more when it’s hot out. I often put electrolyte tablets in my bottles, or a little bit of GQ-6 mix. They’re keep my body hydrated and my cells functioning “optimally”, whatever that means…

(But really though, it works).

For weeks, months, and years, I’ve rarely gotten sick (*knock on wood). But this time, I couldn’t ignore it. I didn’t do my normal ‘openers’ the day before the race, just an easy ride instead. I felt tired and fatigued, and we hadn’t even started yet. Needless to say, I was not feeling confident heading into Friday’s time trial.

Stage 1 – Time Trial

A 3.3-mile course with 240 feet of climbing, nearly all of the elevation gain coming in the second half. I reconed the course the week before, riding three times over the short, bumpy road just north of Old Tucson. It was a tricky course, with the climbs each starting off with pitches well over 10%. Such a short effort feels awkward on the TT bike, and is usually suited to the prologue-specialists, rather than a pure time-trialist. I fall into the second category, which means that I prefer longer, steadier efforts. This TT was anything but.

I went out hard, but knew that I needed to pace it so that I could crush the the climbs in the second half. Physics, science, and whatnot has shown that cyclists lose time (momentum, power, energy) more severely on steeper roads. Basically, the steeper the road, the more time you lose for a given power disparity.

Here’s an example (I’m leaving out a lot of variables to keep it simple here): on a flat, five-minute course, you might only lose a handful of seconds compared to someone doing 50 W more than you. If the course goes up a 15% grade, however, you could easily lose one or two minutes to someone putting out a 50 W greater effort.

With all that said, I had a specific pacing strategy in mind. One that would keep me comfortable on the downhill and flats, and one that would see me pushing 430+ W on the climbs. It seemed like a good strategy, and one that I believed would help me go fastest. But 15 minutes into my warm-up, I could already tell that I didn’t have the legs. It got in to my head more than anything, and I just didn’t believe in myself. I suffered horribly on the bike, fighting the pedals the entire way, rocking and rolling in the aero bars, and fidgeting between gears – I never felt comfortable. I crossed the line with a time that was over 30 seconds slower than my expectations, and rolled back to the car wearing a mask of failure.

(Strava ride here)

I ended up in 23^rd on the day – not horrible, actually – but way below my expectations. But it was the overall feeling – the physical suffering, lack of self-belief, and emotional disappointment – that stung me more than the number on the results sheet.

Many of my teammates had a rough day out too. No one said they felt good, and we all finished below our expectations, as individuals and as a team. We were determined to make up for it in the next day’s road race…

Stage 2 – Road Race

Four laps of a 20.5-mile course, with 700 feet of climbing per lap. But the story of the day was the wind. A strong, 15-20 mph SSW wind basically neutralized the race. The long, gradual uphill heading into the finish was also straight into the headwind. That meant that any breakaway would have to work insanely hard, just to get a few seconds off the front. In the 70+ rider field, however, sitting in the draft was a piece of cake. We were literally riding at less than 150 W while tucked into the group.

Our plans for the day were quickly thwarted. The dominant team – Floyd’s Pro Cycling – sat on the front for most of the day, chasing down dangerous moves and letting smaller, weaker breakaways go. This meant that for most of the race, my teammates and I did nothing. Looking back on the race, we were disappointed in ourselves. We should’ve raced more aggressively – that had been our plan, after all – but we ‘chickened out’.

Maybe we’re being too hard on ourselves…we certainly took our chances in breakaways. Matt attacked early, David attacked late, Tim went for the sprint, and Evan and I made it into a dangerous move on the final lap, going clear just over the top of the climb. But none of our breakaways ever had a realistic chance. Between the wind and the strength-in-numbers of the group behind, our breaks never got more than handful of seconds. We had “tried”, but we didn’t give it our all. Not even close.

Coming in to the field sprint, it was absolute chaos. Because of the wind, it was easy to sit-in, hard to move up. This created a road-block-type scenario, where everyone behind the front riders thought, “This isn’t that hard. I feel good! I can totally win this sprint!” And then they hit the wind, think Ohh ssshhhh** this is hard… and they go backwards.

We tried to set up a lead-out, but we never really got together. A classic case of too many riders, too little road. The finale was one of the easiest and most awkward sprints I’ve ever been a part of. It lasted about six seconds, and I just rolled in with the field, frustrated and confused after what had been both a frustrating and boring day.

***

With just over three hours of riding on the Garmin and Redlands in mind, I decided to ride a little bit extra after the race. The tailwind and 70-degree weather certainly aided my decision… I rode 25 miles north, where my teammates met me at a gas station, and we debriefed on the drive back home.

(Strava ride here)

Stage 3 – Circuit Race

(This is a good one…)

We raced nine laps of a 5.55-mile circuit, with 300 feet of climbing per lap, for a total of 50 miles and ~2,600 feet of climbing. The race was always going to be hard. Not only was the circuit harder – with the 1.5-mile climb up to the feedzone serving as a breakaway launch pad – but today was also the last chance to move up in GC (General Classification – the winner is the rider with the lowest, overall time accumulated over the three days of racing). With such a short time trial, and a field sprint-ending to the road race, the GC was only a matter of seconds. Just five seconds separated 1^st from 4^th, and only 38 seconds between 1^st and 20^th (I was sitting 20^th in GC heading into Stage 3). That meant breakaways were given a short leash, and the mid-race Time Bonus Sprint (subtracting 3, 2, and 1 seconds(s) from the overall time of the first three riders across the line) was going to be hugelyimportant.

Our plan was to race aggressively. But unlike the day before, this time we executed. Project Echelon Racing was always at the front, represented in all dangerous moves, and calling out to each other, communicating, and playing off one another to form breakaways. Our goal was to put pressure on the big teams and the top riders; and the best way to do that was constantly launching attacks. For the first 30 minutes of the race, the field was on the rivet. Riders were strung out in a single-file line every time up the climb, chewing stem, and huffing and puffing like Carl Wheezer from Jimmy Neutron.

I felt good. Really good. I could tell because I wasn’t chewing my stem, even though the pros riding next to me were pretty darn close. I had applied a thick layer of PR Lotion to my legs before the race – as I have in every race (and hard training ride) so far this season – and downed a few CLIF Bloks while sitting on the start line. Thirty minutes in, I could tell that it had worked.

At the bottom of the descent was the right-hand turn and a short, two-part climb to the finish. Two huge rollers, about 20-30 seconds each, were separated by a short, 15-second downhill in the middle. At the end of each lap, we raced up to the finish where hundreds of spectators lined the course and cheered for us as we went flying by.

The Time Bonus Sprint occurred at the end of Lap 3, and man was it hard! I was full-on sprinting, 20-30 wheels back, in the draft, just trying to hold the wheel in front of me. The GC guys at the front were going all-out for these few bonus seconds, which could mean the difference between 4^th and 2^nd, as it was for Nick Zukowsky at the end of the day. When the dust finally settled…it didn’t. The field was still strung out single-file, and now we were heading into the climb. Attacks just kept on coming, but my teammates were riding like champions. We were represented in every move, and when another counterattack went near the top of the climb, Matt was in it.

And then, all of a sudden, Matt was on the ground. A lapse in concentration had caused the rider in front of Matt to crash, and Matt had nowhere to go. Being the hard-man that he is, Matt jumped back on his bike and started chasing back to the field. But upon noticing that his elbow skin was “flapping in the wind”, he decided that he needed medical attention. Cyclists are tough.

When my teammates and I realized the gravity of the situation – not seeing Matt in the field, and not knowing if he was OK – our morale took a big hit. But after a moment of grievance – still mid-race at 30 mph – we realized what we needed to do: race our bikes. We were down but not out, still riding strong and still with a chance, a chance to do something special.

We came through two laps to go; but more than a few riders thought that it was one lap to go. So we went crazy-hard up the climb, with riders launching left and right like it was their last opportunity to escape – it wasn’t. Still altogether – albeit, just barely – we came ripping down the descent and into the last corner, sprinting up towards the finish. However, a few riders were actually sprinting for the finish. As we hit 100 meters to go, they gave it everything they had. As soon as they crossed the line, I knew, they knew, that wasn’t it. They immediately started coasting…and dropping backwards through the field like a dragster that had deployed it parachutes. I felt bad for them…for about 12 seconds, because then it was back to racing. We were heading into the climb for the final time, the last spot, realistically, that a breakaway could get away, and maybe, just maybe, have a chance to stay away to the finish.

Earlier in the race, David had yelled at me to move up. He was right, I was out of position. A couple laps later, Evan had laughed at me when I gave up a Top-10 wheel far too easily. He was also right. But now, on the final lap, with the finale about to kick off, I was in the perfect position. (Thank you to my teammates for the tough love – it’s exactly what I needed).

Five GC guys were strung out in front of me, attacking and counterattacking each other, but never letting anyone go. As we hit the first steep pitch about a third of the way up the climb, I saw my opportunity. As the GC guys sat up and started looking at each other, I launched an attack up the right side of the road. I went deep for about 15 seconds before looking back. When I did, I saw two riders coming across, with another two riders bridging to them. Within a minute, we had a group of five, and we could see the crest of the climb. I kept pushing the pace, and nearly dropping my breakaway companions. As we crested the climb, I flicked my elbow and no one came through. Frustrated, I kept pulling, flicked my elbow, and two of the four guys pulled through. I wasn’t going to let this breakaway die that fast, so I took another pull, and when I flicked my elbow, I realized that I was solo. The lack of cooperation behind left me with a two-second gap – tiny, but not insignificant at this point in the race. I waited for the group about halfway down the descent, and when they caught back on, we only had about 2 km to go.

I kept looking back – the field was still in sight, but they weren’t single-file. They weren’t going very fast. We might be able to hold this! I led into the final turn, with just those two big rollers left before the finish. Conor Schunk – a rider on the Gateway Devo Team that I’ve gotten to know well over the past week; we actually drove the race together – attacked on the first roller and immediately got a gap. I looked at the three other riders. I wasn’t going to chase.

We all hesitated, with Conor starting to ride away, but then one of the other riders went. I slotted into the draft, biding my time and saving some energy. At 200 meters to go, Conor still had a gap, and the rider who had attacked blew up. I was sitting on the wheel of the sprinter, the Canadian pro who had been sitting-on for the entire breakaway. He looked back at me, but I stayed glued to his wheel. Sometimes you have to risk losing to win.

At 150 meters to go, the sprinter launches right in front of me. I stay tucked in his draft. At 100 meters to go, I start coming around him. I’m actually passing him. What is happening?? At 50 meters to go, my front wheel is in front of his. Oh my god I actually passed him! But Conor’s still up there, just a few feet ahead. He’s gonna win! I gave it everything I had in the last few meters, passed everybody, and no one came around me. I crossed the line first.

I punched the air and let out a primal scream. Normally I’m quiet, very quiet, but in that moment, I was anything but. The emotion poured out of me. I punched the air again and let out another scream. Only then did I realized that I couldn’t breathe – sprinting is hard, after all. I turned around and found my teammates a few moments later. They were smiling, knowing that I was in the winning break and got a Top-5. But I’ll never forget the looks on their faces when I told them I had won.

WHHHAATTTTT?!?!?

I hugged my teammates and we soaked it all in. People took pictures, and shot us weird looks, the skinny, sweaty guys in Lycra, hugging each other, and yelling in the middle of the road.

Everything came out in the moment I crossed that finish line. The knee surgeries, the crashes, the pain…the self-doubt, the emotional suffering, the psychological turmoil…the anxiety, the worries, the stress, and the sacrifices. I can still hear that scream vibrating in my throat…It’s a feeling I will never forget, and one that my teammates and I will be chasing for the rest of the year. This was just win #1 for Project Echelon Racing this season…

(Strava ride here)